


The Alternative Meaning of "John"

by TheSoulOfAStrawberry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Asexuality, Betrayal, Bi-Curiosity, Brothels, Deception, Drugs, Multi, Pansexual Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-24 08:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 53,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoulOfAStrawberry/pseuds/TheSoulOfAStrawberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mike convinces John he could flatshare with a detective, he sends him to the residence of Sherlock Holmes, prostitute. Lured in under false pretences, he soon uncovers the truth, by which time he's too involved in Sherlock's world of guns, drugs, pimps and tea. Which is when John does something quite stupid: he falls in love. Twice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cunning

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This came to me really randomly, after my friend and I read "What To Do When Your Flatmate Is Homocidal", which makes a joke about Sherlock introducing John as "my John", as apparently "john" also means a prostitute's client. So... Headcanon time!
> 
> Sherlock is a prostitute, John is the unsuspecting innocent man, and Mike hoodwinks them both. There will be a plot, as John falls maybe a bit in love, and tries to help Sherlock out of the general mess he gets himself into. Molly is ditzy, Lestrade is dapper or gangsta or something, and I think Anderson has to go somewhere awkward... Meh. Please critique or whatever, I'm open to suggestions! This is my first work on AO3, so I'm trying to get the hang of it...

Mike had never intended to prank John. When he'd awoken in sweaty oblivion that morning, he had little knowledge that he'd even meet his old friend again, after such a long time, let alone trick him into anything. It was hard to tell that this man in front of him was even the same John Watson he'd done shots with the night before the big medical exam back in university- he looked tired, and was greying around the edges, despite being younger than Mike. However, overlooking all this, Mike was not the kind of man to pass up an oppurtunity for a bit of mischief when it sat down next to him and sighed heavily.

"Who would want to live with me?" John said sadly.

For a moment, Mike looked at him blankly, trying desperately to pin the faint sense of déjà vu on a real memory, before remembering, and, marvelling at his own nefarious wit. He smiled at first, until he couldn't resist and split into a grin, chuckling to himself.

John regarded him curiously, a sad twinkle in his eyes.

"That's funny," Mike grinned, and paused for a moment to savour the inquisition, before quenching it, "You're the second person to say that to me today."

He watched with a impassive expression as John's eyebrows furrowed slightly, and his pale, papery skin brightened a bit, little creases appearing either side of his mouth.

"Really?" he asked, and Mike pushed his glasses up his sweaty nose. "Who was the other one?"

The dark haired man blinked, pausing for a second, as if to consider if this was the right thing to do, before kicking questioning proverbially in the face and grabbing John by the hand. Who, indeed, he thought, as John jumped a bit at the sudden contact.

"A friend of mine. A... A detective," Mike spluttered. He'd picked the first job that came into his head, thinking of a Swedish drama his wife had been watching the night before. When he thought about it though, it would have been a good suit for the man he had in mind, had he not have held his current... _profession._

"A detective?" John asked, unsure, but Mike, again, simply laughed, letting go of a tense John and throwing his empty coffee cup into the bin next to the bench before slapping his hands down on his lap and guffawing. John simply observed him, if not nervously, fiddling with his cane and wondering if he'd finally have something to put on his godforsaken blog.

"C'mon," Mike said, leaping to his feet in a way that was unnatural for someone of his build. "I'll take you now."

John paused. Was a man he'd not seen since medical school seriously suggesting that he knew the right man to become his flatmate? He was dubious, not only because of the quick escalation of events, but bacause Mike had once been quite the trickster, and when things were going this smoothly, John knew better than to stay within a mile radius of "Sly Stammy", lest he get caught up in a scheme of his.

Then again, John told himself, Mike was hardly the life and soul of the party any more, with his bald patch, spare tyre and stain on his tie that looked like baked bean juice, though it just as easily could have been tomato ketchup.

"Wait... What's the catch?"

Mike Stamford feigned hurt. "Catch? Johnny, I'm just trying to do an old timer a favour." He winked. "If I drive you, we might be able to catch him. He's checking out a flat to rent in Westminster at one, or so he told me, so I'm guessing we've got fifteen minutes of so to get over there, if you're up for it," he said, offering John a hand. John pretended not to see this, and used the cane to steady himself with his bad leg until he was stood up, straight backed, just like in the military, at which point he looked up at Mike. Mike raised one eyebrow at him. People had told Mike that John Watson was different now he'd returned from the war- _trust issues_ , they said- but Mike knew better. John was still the good boy, naïve as ever.

"You'd drive me?" John asked, figuring he'd nothing to lose.

"Of course!" Mike smiled lopsidedly, and John returned it trustingly, "Anything for an old friend!"


	2. A Curious Man

It was the mess that John had noticed first.

It couldn't be the mess from the last owner, he thought, surely. He looked around the room cautiously, seeing nothing but myriad boxes of books, a messily taped up pile of cushions, and, rather surprisingly, what appeared to be a real human skull sat innocently on the dusty mantlepiece. There was no sign of life.

"Hello?" John called out, but no answer came. Perhaps he'd missed the guy- after all, he was five minutes late, despite Mike racing him across London in his tin can of a car. Mike had just dropped him on the kerb outside the flat, talking about being on a lunchbreak or something, before speeding off and leaing him to make his way through the open door and up to 221B as instructed, pausing half way up the stairs to massage his bad leg for a moment.

He couldn't help but assume there'd been a mix-up. Mike had got the wrong address, wrong time... All this stuff could even belong to a new owner.

He shuffled awkwardly from side to side for a moment, part of him desperate for someone to jump out from behind a box and show him around. He had gotten his hopes up a bit about being able to stay in London. Alas, it was not to be; and so he turned around to go back whence he'd come.

"Can I help you?"

John nearly jumped out of his skin, startled to see a tall man stood on the landing in front of him.

"Um..." His voice was uneasy, and his gripped the varnished cherrywood handle of his cane tightly as he cleared his throat. "Mike Stamford is a-"

"Oh," the man cut in, with the most beautifully baritone voice the doctor had ever heard. "You're not a client then?"

"A... A client?" John repeated, a bit flustered. "Me? I... Oh... You're a... I... No," he stammered, mouth unable to keep up with his thought process. He couldn't help but wonder what kind of detective work this man did- he had a strong, enigmatic presence- though he supposed such an outright question would be considered rude.

The man stood in the hallway for a moment, gazing at John intently, as if thoroughly intrigued by his very existence. John, in turn, stared back, taking in the stranger's uneartly height and slim frame. He could have been a model, with his chocolate brown curls, piercing blue eyes and high cheekbones together with with the heavy black coat and slim-fitting suit he had on. John suddenly felt rather plain as a man, until he remembered that this man had already too seen Mike that day; who looked a good deal in worse shape than John. At least, John's clothes was clean, and free of incrimating cuisine stains.

"I'll just-"

"Here," the man interrupted again, before holding out a key, dropping it into John's automatically outstretched palm with a rather quaint little tinkling sound. John blinked at him in awe, which the man pretended not to notice as he stepped past the shorter man into the flat.

"The landlady, Ms Hudson, called earlier to say that she had a viewing cancelled and that I was free to come earlier. I've taken the flat, but she's not given me any of the papers yet and there's room enough for another person here." He paused, thinking. "I'm guessing Mike told you what I do, but I should probably warn you: my work often requires me to work very late, and there are times when I don't speak for days on en-"

"Oh!" came an exclamation from behind John, and he leapt out of the way to see a kind looking woman of about fifty bustling in, fixing her hair with a purple clip. "Found a flatmate already, dear?" she said to the tall man, who glanced at John knowingly, grinning.

"This is Ms Hudson. Ms Hudson, this is..."

"Uh... John... Dr John Watson," John introduced himself, smiling. The woman, smiled at him, blushing as she straightened the collar of his bomber jacket.

"Oh, a doctor! And a fine young man too, Sherlock. Will you be needing seperate rooms?" she asked them both.

"Now wait a minute..." John interjected. Both Ms Hudson and the man looked at him expectantly, at which point he gulped, feeling more than nervous after so long with little company other than his psychiatrist and the odd shopkeeper. There were so many questions flying through his head right then, that it was nearly impossible to grab hold of one to ask. Some he could work out for himself- this man was a detective, so he must have been able to tell why John was there, though he wasn't sure how, unless Mike had dropped him a text on their way, in which case John hadn't noticed. It would be good to know how he knew it, but right then there were more pressing issues at hand.

"Isn't this a bit strange?" he addressed the tall man strongly, "I don't even know your name and you're offering me to live with you."

"The name's Sherlock Holmes. The address," he said, flourishing a hand about him, "Is 221B Baker Street. What more is there to it, Doctor?"

John's mouth hung open a bit, with a feeling of slight disbelief, and the man gripped his coat and walked to the window, peeking through the curtains. "Though I understand if yo want to think about it- you're welcome to stay the afternoon to get a feel for the place," he concluded curtly, before looking up at the door at the exact moment the door went.

"Sherlock, I've got him, and you better be bloody grateful," a grey-haired man said, strolling into the apartment without as much as acknowledgement to the two standing in the doorway. He was wearing a suit, though it was baggier on him than Sherlock's, and he wore a tie. His shoes squeaked as he crossed the floor, and Ms Hudson shot John a silent look he wasn't sure he comprhended as the grey man handed Sherlock a phone, which Sherlock consequently read from, and nodded, before handing it back. John was startled by this man- he looked businesslike but talked to Sherlock as if he were a friend... but still an underclassman? John was confused. He didn't look like a detective, nor a policeman; unless he was off-duty. But then, why would he be talking to Sherlock?

"Um..."

"This is Lestrade," Sherlock said simply, and Lestrade raised an eyebrow at the pair in the doorway.

"John Watson," John replied simply.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow as he looked him up and down, before giving a meaningful glance at Sherlock, who simply shook his head, closing his eyes. He shrugged, and adjusted his tie, walking back across to the door, this time adding a little swagger, and giving John another funny look.

"Tonight, Holmes. I don't give a fuck how good you are: it's all bullshit to me if you don't get paid."

And with that, he was gone just as quickly as he'd appeared.

John looked back at Sherlock, who had sat down on the arm of the sofa, and then down at Ms Hudson, who looked worried; although when she noticed he was watching, she tapped his arm gently and smiled.

"Shall I make some tea?" She asked the pair, and John nodded. "Though just this once, mind; I'm not your housekeeper. John, feel free to sit anywhere there's a space," she told him, nodding at the couch full of boxes whilst noticing his use of a cane.

No sooner had Ms Hudson taken the first step into the equally cluttered kitchenette, was Sherlock up and on the other side of the room, holding a red and a black bow tie up to the collar of the purple shirt he was wearing, then throwing them down again and running a hand through his hair and looking at the ground.

"Black," John said, and Sherlock looked at him blankly; "The black tie goes better with the shirt."

"O... Oh." Sherlock looked as if he were about to add something, but settled with, "Thanks."

John could sense something strange and sinister was happening, but he didn't know what it was. Sherlock looked so contrastingly different from before: vulnerable and lugubrious, rather than the candor and the vigour and presence John had felt when he'd first entered the room. The appearance of this "Lestrade" fellow was quizzical- questions surrounded him and whatever he'd meant that had upset Sherlock so.

"Don't wait up," Sherlock instructed. John looked up, to see Sherlock fixing the black tie, standing in the doorway.

"You're going out?"

"I'll be back late, Ms Hudson, so please make sure John is OK," he called into the kitchen. He turned to John. "As I said, you're welcome to stay." He sounded lethargic and depressed, but he carried himself confidently the next minute, all the presence and class returning, as if he regretted his every choice in life, but was going to carry of the façade of young and free anyhow.

Ms Hudson leapt from the kichen and grabbed his arm as he left, and kissed him on either cheek. "Stay safe, Sherlock" she said, radiating maternal concern, and John could have sworn he saw her wipe a tear from her eye.

"Wait," John stopped him this time, and the man spun on his heel, a glimmer of hope in his eyes dull eyes- the only thing about him that didn't carry off the look of confidence he was going for. John took a deep breath.

"I'll help you. Whatever it is... I mean, I'll..." He didn't know where he was going with his train of thought, he just wanted to feel useful. He'd not really expected Sherlock to take him up on the offer.

And yet, Sherlock's eyes glimmered a bit again, and Ms Hudson seemed happier next to him.

"It's dangerous," he warned, before his eyes caught on John's cane, "In a different way than you already know, believe me." It didn't sound arrogant, him saying this, but worried. Or maybe both. John just shrugged, and he didn't know why because he wasn't sure what he was getting himself into. To be honest with himself, he missed the rush and the adrenaline of the battlefield, and whatever detective things this man was up to, John was sure it would be damn better than sitting at home and trying to think up something interesting to write on his blog.

"I know."

Sherlock paused, grinning wildly at Ms Hudson.

"If you've got my back, then the game is on," he whispered to John, and his eyes flashed dangerously.

Suddenly, John found himself wondering what terrible chase he gotten himself chained into, and momentarily regretted ever taking Mike's advice and coming here: until Sherlock walked up to him and grabbed his wrist, clutching it tightly between cold, thin fingers and dragging him down the stairs.

John's cane leant, forgotten, against the chair.

"Taxi!"


	3. Three Million

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NB- "Ailleurs" is "elsewhere" in French. That's apparently not widely known, I thought I should mention it!

Sherlock never stopped. He was on his heels, then on the balls of his feet, then on his heels again, rocking back and forth like a child as the taxi pulled up outside 221B and they both clambered in. He wouldn't sit still on the way there, wherever it was they were going; always craning his neck to see if the traffic ahead was moving. As the taxi pulled up to the kerb, he fumbled in his pockets for a plastic resealable bag where he appeared to have cash in rolls, with elastic bands around each small roll, which John considered strange as he took out his leather wallet, attempting to pay his half of the fare, but Sherlock wouldn't let him, instead pushing him out onto the busy street, at the gaping mouth of the underground station.

"Can I just ask-"

"No," Sherlock answered, descending the bustling stairs. For a moment, John was a few metres behind Sherlock, desperately watching the man's head above the crowd- which, thankfully, seemed to be moving with them, until they got into the ticket area and there was more space. People were splitting into the two corridors either sides for the seperate lines. He caught up with Sherlock just down the left corridor, and stood by his side as he looked at his phone. For some reason, he seemed to be attracting stares, but again, John wasn't sure why.

"Where are we going?"

"Ailleurs. Not here. Move," Sherlock said, and walked calmly but promptly down towards the Central Line. John hurried after him, his short legs struggling against Sherlock's lengthy strides, and he couldn't help but notice the way he rolled his hips rather seductively in a kind of strut when he walked. John put it down to his arrogance, which reminded him of the strange way he'd acted back in the flat.

"Sherlock... Do you mind telling me what's going on? Why did we not get the Tube here rather than a taxi... And how did you know about me wanting the flat earlier?"

"What's going on is we are walking," he muttered, "Chasing, if you must. I'd like us to keep a low profile- hence the taxi, and would you keep a look out for the police? As for the flat- I dunno, intelligent guesswork. Besides Lestrade and, barely anyone should know my new address, and Lestrade only gives it out to clients. So it had to be Mike- and I'd mentioned to Mike that I was looking for a flatmate. Voilà."

"Oh," John mumbled, feeling foolish. "Guess it comes with the job." Sherlock stopped at the side of the walkway just before the ticket barriers and leant against the wall. His fingers darted across the screen of the iPhone nestled between his fingers, and he sent a text, which John could read.

**In position. Make sure I'm clear. SH**

"If you don't mind me asking, what kind of detective work do you do? The kind that makes you hide from the police... Is it some kind of freelance or private thing...?"

This caught Sherlock by surprise. "I'm sorry?"

"Um... Well, it's just it didn't look like Lestrade is from the police or anything- what?"

John cut himself off. Sherlock was looking at him, a contorted expression of confusion and concentration crossing his face. John too, now leant wearily against the wall, as somehow it had been nearly an hour since he'd arrived at Baker Street and he was already roped into some mysterious chase.

"You... You think I'm a detective?" A curl fell in his face and he brushed it away quickly. "What... Why... Because of the guesswork?"

"I... Your not...?"

Sherlock looked slightly embarrassed now, and that vulnerable side was beginning to show again, John could see it. Perhaps he'd said too much.

"I thought Mike told you. You said he had," he whispered, blushing slightly. "This is awkward."

"I'm sorry... What... I... What are we... What are you then?" John looked guilty, unable to say anymore. What Sherlock did didn't really matter, or so he thought- until the moment when Sherlock lowered himself towards John's ear, and, hot breath tickling the side of his face, whispered, "John, I'm a prostitute."

"I... I..." Mike _had_ tricked him. Anger boiled up inside him, and he detested himself for how he'd walked straight into it. "You're a PROSTITUTE?!" John yelled, but before he had time to contain himself, time itself seemed to slow as the whole corridor stopped to look at them. John went bright red, and looked up at Sherlock, who, in comparison, looked like a plug had been pulled at his feet and all the blood had been drained out of him. Strangely for John, his eyes appeared to be scintillating with tears, but a moment later, Sherlock's gaze averted down the corridor behind John and his eyes widened.

The next thing he knew, John was being rammed up against the wall and there were two firm hands on his shoulder. He heard "Close your eyes, NOW," muttered to him, and then someone was kissing him. For a moment, it was nice, because out of instinct, John had actually closed his eyes, but when he tasted the sharpness of nicotine and the brush of a coat collar, it hit him that Sherlock Holmes, the man he was supposedly going to share a flat with, who turned out to not be a detective but a prostitute, was kissing him, John Hamish Watson, who did nothing with his time other than think about things to blog about.

He tried to resist it, opening his eyes and seeing people staring, and Sherlock stumbled, because he was such a lightweight, but the harder John tried to push Sherlock away, the more Sherlock pressed his right elbow into John's bad shoulder, forcing him to close his eyes in agony as tears welled in the corner of his eyes, and Sherlock kissed him harder to stop him from screaming out. If it weren't for all the pain, John remembered thinking that Sherlock was obviously good at what he did, as he was a great kisser, though he wasn't sure about kissing a man. He'd never considered himself that way orientated.

Finally, after what seemed like an age, they broke apart, but no sooner had they done so did Sherlock steer John into a nearby alcove by some payphones, in the shadows, where he panted slightly and stood with his back to the wall in the corner. John couldn't really believe what had just happened. Sherlock was a prostitute. Sherlock had just kissed him. Which was bigger?

His shoulder was killing him.

"What the fuck," he hissed suddenly, dropping back to his senses and grabbing Sherlock's coat collar and duffing him up against the wall. He may have been a head shorter than Sherlock, but it had been obvious before that John could easily overpower the taller man's skinny frame with his army muscle power. Sherlock struggled for a moment, before shrinking slightly under John's killer glare.

"What the fuck," he repeated. "Is your problem? Why would you go and assume that I know you're a fucking prostitute and then go and kiss me over it? You cunt... Tell me what goes on in that smart arse head of yours to make that seem like an acceptable fucking course of action."

The irritating part of Sherlock wanted to ask John why he suddenly wanted to use the F-word so much all of a sudden, but he was terrified of what kind of attention John could get him and so was desperate to calm him.

"What? John, it didn't mean anything. Decoy." He was distracted glancing out of the alcove back down the walkway, despite being locked against the wall by John's restrictive grip.

John's grip loosened.

"What do you mean, _decoy_?"

"Police," Sherlock sounded strained as he gestured down the corridor. John let go of him, letting him gasp for air. When he'd caught his breath again, Sherlock looked in the opposite direction as John peeked out between the wall and Sherlock's coat, where, sure enough, two policemen were milling about next to the ticket machines.

"Oh. So... W-Why kiss me?"

" _Decoy_ , John! Prostitution is illegal, don't you know that? I don't want to be arrested," he snapped. "Policemen always look away from kissing guys. It's a social thing," he explained, slightly less tensely.

"I'm sorry," John muttered. "You should have been the one with me against the wall like that." He'd nearly screwed up the life of the first new person he'd met in months.

John looked at him differently now he knew Sherlock was a... It made sense, really- Sherlock's hip wiggle, the bow tie effort, the bundles of cash... He guessed Lestrade was Sherlock's boss.

"Lestrade is my boss," Sherlock said, as if reading his mind.

"If it's illegal, why do it?" The question had popped out before he could stop it. It had been his most burning one- until a few moments previously, he'd seen Sherlock, being a detective, to be an exemplary law-abiding Briton, so the sudden switch was quite the contrast.

Sherlock laughed quietly, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You think I want to do it?"

"What?"

Sherlock looked slightly irritated by having to relay the details of his private life to John, but then also kind of thankful that John was an ear who cared, as the hating look had mostly gone, though he kept wiping his mouth. He checked out around the corner for the policemen that had passed, before turning to John.

"It's a long story, but... I owed alot of people stuff. I went to a boarding school where the wrong crowd turned on me, and the next thing I know my debt is my body and I've been sold to a brothel in central London at 18. Lestrade, you met him- he runs that place. I'm free as soon as my debt is cleared."

John was so confused.

"Why not go to the police? It's trafficking or something..."

"They've got a web, John. Not Lestrade- he's just a cover. No- men in London who kill because people pay them to: I pay in sex, or I pay in blood, and probably not just my own. You think Scotland Yard can stop them? They can't even run polls for their own police commissioner," Sherlock said darkly, but he wasn't trying to make it sound dramatic or anything- he sounded sad. This was Sherlock's life, John thought. He couldn't comprehend it.

"I'll pay..."

"Three million? No, I don't think you will."

"Shit." John stepped away from Sherlock quickly, as if he had burnt him, and put his head in his hands, shaking with shock and disbelief. Only yesterday he was drinking tea alone in a café, and now he was talking to a man with no control over anything in his life. Manipulated, like a puppet; by fear and networks.

"We're chasing a man for my pay."

"He didn't pay you?!"

"'t happens."

John paused, swallowing the information. "How come you've got the flat then?" John asked, hoping it would be a sign to the end of Sherlock's torture.

"My _brother_ , pretending he cares. I daresay you'll meet him soon," Sherlock grumbled, shooting a look at the CCTV camera above their heads when his phone buzzed.

"Shit," Sherlock said, as he opened the message. He turned to John. "Look, you're welcome to go back to the flat. If not, I could really do with a partner who doesn't mind a bit of danger right now," Sherlock said, sounding ever so slightly needy. John nodded once, still feeling shaky, but managing to stand up straight by reminding himself that he was a soldier and that he should act like one.

If Sherlock had been living this life since 18, then John could do it now, for his sake.

Oh, how the day was turning out, John thought, and he and Sherlock hurtled back out of the alcove and back up the corridor, feet pounding the ground and hearts racing with adrenaline.


	4. Chase

The chase, it seemed, had begun. Travelling against the flow of the crowd, unlike before, was proving difficult, and John did his best to keep on Sherlock's heels, as the man dodged and weaved, then swung round and climbed the stairs, throwing himself effortlessly up each and every stair while John struggled behind him. He could hear his own heavy breathing and the blood gushing in his ears, but other than that, everything seemed eerily silent. John worked out who they were chasing by following Sherlock's movements and line of sight, locking onto a shady looking chap who kept looking behind him, before finally breaking into a run.

They finally came back up onto the busy street, and John and Sherlock lost the man for a moment, squinting, before John spotted the man and pointed at him.

"Quick, Sherlock, there: getting into the taxi outside the bakery!"

"Shit," Sherlock repeated, but flashed John a grin as they set off again. John was slamming into people left, right and centre, and kept apologising, but catching no one's eye.

He remembered the pistol in his jacket, and vowed that he would use it if either of them got into trouble. Just in case.

John slowed down as the man got into the taxi, thinking they'd lost him, but Sherlock simply changed direction, running out towards the street. For a moment, time seemed to slow to a stop for the second time that day, and on impulse, John grabbed the back of Sherlock's trench coat and pulled. The man exhaled sharply, as a taxi whizzed past his nose, barely missing him, and he turned to John in shock.

"Thanks," he said breathlessly, pink tinging his pallor. John blinked at him.

"Sherlock? Let's go."

"Right," Sherlock said, snapping out of the kind of daze he was in and turning back to the road, looking at the traffic, grabbing John by the hand and running across without nearly getting hit.

_I can cross roads by myself_ , John thought, looking Sherlock's fingers intertwined with his own, but when he considered that it meant he could keep up better, he decided not to mention it.

Sherlock slipped into a side street, away from the taxi and the guy they were supposed to be chasing, though John still didn't know why.

"Sherlock, he's going that way-"

"Trust me," was all John got in brief reply, as they suddenly slowed down to a casual stroll, Sherlock moving with precision but looking distracted; looking this way and that and pretending his was interested in the quirks of the Sino backstreet, while not stopping or even changing his pace. They took a left, then a right, then two more lefts, until John's perception of the direction they were travelling in was completely frazzled.

"Sherlock-" he interjected, but for what seemed like the millionth time that day, John was cut off by Sherlock slamming his arm into John's chest, pushing them both against the dirty wall.

"Prostitution isn't just sex, John," Sherlock whispered, his deep voice making the air around them hum with suspense. "It's a way of life."

John was aware that there was a main road at the end of the alleyway, and that a taxi had just pulled up nearby- he'd seen it slow as it passed. From the road, they weren't visible- hidden in an alcove. There was a red, stained door on their side outside the alcove nearer to the road, which they could see quite clearly if they poked their heads out. Other than a starved looking moggy, they were completely alone. At least, for now.

"Would you mind filling me in?" John muttered, barely audible to anyone but Sherlock.

"We're chasing that taxi, remember. God, John, were you not paying attention?" he smirked, and John couldn't tell if he was joking or not. However, he then continued, "They don't know I know about this place. Lestrade... I intended to intercept him on his daily tube run, but apparently, he heard YOU," he gave John an accusing look, "And came back here. Or at least, this is the direction his taxi came in."

"OK... But, why are we after this guy?"

"Shh." John didn't need to question like that, as he spotted the same man from before swaggering down the alley towards them, stowing his wallet in his pocket. Not a prostitute, then, John thought, remembering the rolls of cash. Sherlock tucked himself into the alcove, silent as a mouse, and so did John.

They both listened carefully as the man's footsteps neared until the finally scuffed and there was a tinkling of keys. This was the moment Sherlock took his chance, and leapt out from his hiding place and straight on to the man, wrestling him to the ground using some rather expert-looking joint techniques and instantly straddling the man with his hips, so the man was face up on the ground and Sherlock and the man both had their arms free. John stood in close vicinity, hands held in a non-violent position by his sides that meant he could easily access his gun.

"What the- get off! Get off me!" yelled the man, struggling wildly against Sherlock.

"I believe you've forgotten something," he drawled in reply, and the man stopped dead.

"Why; Sherlock," the man purred, the sudden change in tone unnerving John.

"I haven't got time for this, Sebastian. You play, you pay, that's the rules."

The man was laughing mirthlessly now, and Sherlock's brows furrowed in annoyance.

"What on earth is so funny, Sebastian?"

"Don't say my name like that. I liked you calling me "Sebby". I liked what else we did, too, Sherlock, but... Y'know, sometimes you have to let go." Sebastian was tracing a finger down Sherlock's long and pale neck seductively, but when Sherlock flicked it away, he simply sucked it in the same un-censored manner.

"I have let go," the dark haired man snapped.

"That's not what it looks like."

"I need paying. Otherwise you've as good as raped me."

"Oh," Sebastian sung, "I _raped_ you. I dare you to take that one to the police. Oh- wait. I wonder what they'd think of your _illegal_ activities. Tell another one, your friend here is enjoying it," he mocked, nodding at John, who gritted his teeth.

"Leave him out of it," Sherlock hissed. "Look, you just pay me and I'm gone. Out of your hair, professional standards again." John thought for a moment. Was Sherlock begging?

"Oooh, touchy subject? I had no idea you were _allowed_ partners in your position."

Sherlock paused, watching Sebastian squirm, until eventually; "That's a very good act you're putting on there," he smirked, and Sebastian looked taken aback.

"What?"

"I know you're no ordinary client, Sebastian Moran. Ordinary clients aren't secretive about who they're texting after sex. They don't drug me, either, so that they can run off without paying."

"Really..."

"I know a spy when I shag one," he snapped. John wasn't entirely sure he knew what was going on right then, but as the conversation progressed, he learnt more of the story. He couldn't put a finger on something about Sebastian.

"Got me," the man said gruffly, dropping the singsong voice and the camp gestures. Sherlock smirked.

"You couldn't keep it up last night either."

"Do you know who I'm working for?" He sounded as if he were bragging.

"Why should I care? You're not spying on me, you're spying on Lestrade. Unless you are spying on me, in which case I'd have preferred you and your boss dropped in for tea. I've got nothing to hide."

"At your new residence, on Baker Street," Sebastian grinned wickedly, though his eyes remained with as little personality as a stock photo. Sherlock's face dropped. "Nothing to hide, was it?"

"I've had enough of this. Pay me."

"No."

"NOW."

"What would happen if I said I had men on their way?"

"This," Sherlock said curtly, and punched the man. Blood dribbled from Sebastian's nose, and down onto his lips, and his spat it up at Sherlock.

Sherlock simply repeated this action, this time knocking the man out with ease, a sickening thud turning John's stomach as his head hit the ground. Sherlock, however, paid no attention to this and went straight for Sebastian's pocket, taking the entire wallet and then finding a knife stowed away underneath it.

"Good job that ended when it did," Sherlock noted, and a chill ran down John's spine; he couldn't help but wonder what would have happened if Sebastian had pulled out that knife. Did Sherlock not consider these things? He stood awkwardly to one side as the tall man pocketed the knife as his own, before scrabbling to his feet and strolling to the wall.

"We've got to go over," he said to John, "They've probably got us surrounded."

"What, you mean that wasn't bluffing?" John asked in disbelief. He had no idea that spies and gangs still existed in a place like London. Despite what Sherlock claimed he wasn't, this business was startlingly like a detective novel.

"Probably not," he sniffed, "Because I wasn't. He has the power to, so why not?" He gave John a look up and down, and one corner of his mouth curled upwards. He chuckled.

"Do you need a leg up?"


	5. Tea and Toast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a plot to this, but it comes later. Or that's what you think...

"Keep calm, John," Sherlock muttered as they walked into the small tea shop. It was busy with elderly people and teenagers on phones, so a bunch of misfits like John and Sherlock were overlooked easily. Sherlock bought them each a cup of tea, and turned around to ask John if he wanted anything.

"Slice of toast will do."

"Would you like jam with that?" the girl behind the counter asked in a thick Cockney accent, and John nodded vacantly, wandering off to sit in the seat that he could see out of the window in, but where they were virtually invisible to the street.

A few moments later, Sherlock slipped in opposite him, placing a numbered placard on the table in front of him.

"Are you going to tell me what that was all about?" John asked, resting his head in his hands.

"No."

"No?"

"Not yet. John, I don't believe we can be flatmates if you know everything about me and I know absolutely nothing about you."

"Maybe you would know something if you were actually a detective like Mike told me," John replied dryly. Sherlock cocked his head to one side ever so slightly, as if there were something in his ear that was hindering his hearing.

"Oh, so Mike... So what if I'm not a detective. I barely ever bring work home, and for the relationship we have as flatmates, I think rent boy would be quite a suitable title," he raised his eyebrows with the dry humour, and John lifted his head out of his hands to look at Sherlock, massaging his forehead to ease the tension in both the conversation and his face.

"Yeah... About the flatmates thing..."

"What?"

"I... I need to think about it. Just... give it a night. I'm not sure if I can deal with your lifestyle- I mean, it's not the... y'know..."

"Sex, John."

"Yes, that- it's more the fact that you have spies and people after you that worries me. And they know where we- you, live already, after two hours."

"John, even if you didn't move into Baker Street, they could find out all your personal information and bank details, as well as your address, in a matter of minutes. What?" he asked, seeing the expression on John's face, "I'm not kidding. I don't have a bank account for that reason. The cash from before was all I have to my name."

"What? But, that was barely-"

"£160, plus what I got from Sebastian."

"Most of it goes to this three million?"

"Exactly." He lowered his voice. "If anything, you're safer with me."

"You sound like an agent, not a prostitute."

"Like I said," he muttered irately, "A way of life. I have no one behind me, no ways of obtaining information or financial help. Unless you count my brother," he added.

"Oh," was all John could manage, and, for a second, he couldn't think of anything to say. He felt he should hug the man, but strangely, it looked like it wouldn't hit the mark and that Sherlock was a bit of a stranger to real sentiment; or at least on the surface.

"Tell me about yourself," Sherlock insisted casually, leaning back in his chair and stretching out his stupidly long legs. John, a little unnerved by how Sherlock's bright blue eyes now tracked his every move intently, sighed lightly, before giving in to the prostitute's whims.

"Me? Well... I'm a doctor." Sherlock knew that. "Or at least, I was, professionally- I worked in the hospitals on the front line in Afganistan, until... I... I got shot..." he said, losing his train of thought for a moment and simply staring of into space. For once, Sherlock didn't say anything- not interrupting, making a snide comment or shoving him into a wall. In fact, he said nothing still as a small, quaint Polish waitress waltzed up to the table and served out two grey-looking cups of tea and a slice of soggy toast with no jam to be seen. When she'd gone, Sherlock pushed the toast and the tea towards him, a lost twinkle on his lips.

"Thanks," John sighed, looping a tired finger through the teacup handle and bringing the cup to his lips elegantly, taking a long sip. "Terrible," he said as he set it back down, and Sherlock giggled softly, John joining in at seeing the other man's features soften until the two were laughing together, attracting a few strange looks, which was when they stopped.

"You miss it."

"I'm sorry?"

"You miss it," Sherlock repeated, quieter the second time. "The rush, the feel of a trigger beneath your fingertips. You miss it."

The hot, dusty nights. The tents. The locals. The excitement. The purpose, the chance to prove his worth; to do his country honour.

John paused. "Yes," he remembered, "Yes I do. My... therapist doesn't understand. But you're trying to convince me to live with you, Sherlock, aren't you?"

Sherlock simply chuckled.

"Was everything you said before true?" John finally brought himself to ask, quietly.

"Which parts?"

"Are you gay? Wait... I- I don't mean it like that, it's OK if you are... fine..."

"No. Professionally, I'm pansexual."

"Professionally?" John quoted, blushing.

"You must understand that one does not mix business and pleasure. I don't have encounters, as such, outside of my profession. Asexual"

John opened his mouth, then closed it again, and to shut himself up, took another swig of the ghastly liquid in his cup being sold on the blackboards above the counter as "English breakfast tea".

He was way out of his depth in this conversation. Pansexual meant Sherlock had no preferences whatsoever, right? It was rare, and it sounded... destructive.

Unless... Was that normal for his "type"? John had no idea of what really went on behind closed doors in Sherlock's occupation, let alone knew the culture. He felt like he was in a different country than he'd originally woken up in; one with bad tea and unorthodox relationships, or "business" as Sherlock would undoubtedly call it.

As well as that, John had the recurring image of Sherlock punching that man's lights out with little change of emotion crossig his face, which, John had to be honest, was a horrifying prospect to be up against in any kind of domestic tussles the pair might come across with becoming flatmates. Like the skull.

"John...?" Sherlock tested, and he looked up.

"You've got blood on your face," he noted, as Sherlock pushed the toast closer to him.

"Great," he muttered under his breath, picking up the teaspoon in his tea and sucking it rather cutely, John noticed, in order to see his face in it, using the plain white napkin to wipe of the spots of dried blood from where Sebastian had spat his blood at him.

John sampled the toast, which he discovered to be cold, and, with a distasteful look, set it back down again, wrinkling his nose as he thought.

"Ask it."

"What?"

"You want to ask me something; I can tell," Sherlock said, not taking his attention away from the napkin and the blood.

"Oh, so you're a detective now."

"No. Would you drop that? A detective sounds like a fascinating job, and it more than depresses me that I can't in fact live up to your expectations," he snapped tetchily. John shrank back, and Sherlock sighed, "I'm sorry. You're brilliant for standing me this long; honestly. And you've saved my life more times than you can imagine already. Please... Ask what it was you wanted to ask."

"Um... Do you know who Moran was working for?" John whispered, leaning forward over the table. Upon hearing the question, Sherlock too leant over, and John could feel the intensity of his gaze as he answered.

"No, I don't: I couldn't make out that I did, either. It shouldn't make any impact on us."

"Lestrade?"

"Contrary to what he thinks, I do not work at his beck and call; just for the money. I don't intend to mention it to him. I got paid, that's all we set out to do. He'll meet me at the flat later."

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"I..." John traced the rim of of his teacup, and looked up at Sherlock, who had his eyebrows furrowed in expectation. "I... It's nothing."

And in that moment, there was a commotion as someone stumbled heavily through the shop door.

A woman in a short skirt: crashing in, the entire teashop turning to look at her as she stumbled towards John and Sherlock's table. She had matted chesnut hair, wet and tired looking eyes, one shoe, and was screaming Sherlock's name over and over before she suddenly collapsed, gasping, into his arms.


	6. No Use Crying Over Spilt Emotion

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," the woman said as she stumbled from the taxi and onto the pavement outside 221B. Sherlock steadied her, his coat covering her bare arms protectively as she hopped over the cracks in the pavement, the one shoe she was wearing hanging uselessly from her foot.

John hated to suppose, but, as he looked this girl up and down from behind as he hopped out of the taxi, he couldn't help but assume, for the moment, she was also a... sex worker. Just going off what she was wearing: her studded black skirt was so short that when she toppled over onto their doorstep while Sherlock opened the door, John momentarily caught sight of her pink, lacy, cat-printed knickers before he looked away. Her top, blatantly ignorant of etiquette rules, was also low cut; purple, just plain, and a flimsy cardigan that left her grazed forearms exposed. No wonder she was shivering.

"Sherlock, dear, what have you done?" Ms Hudson cried as the unlikely trio burst through the front door. The woman in Sherlock's arms mumbled something incoherent, and John blinked thrice in utter confusion. Sherlock, it seemed, had the whole situation under control.

"Not to worry, Ms Hudson," he said, already aiding the woman up the stairs, "This is Molly Hooper. She's mostly harmless." And with that, he turned the stairs, leaving Ms Hudson tutting at them.

"You boys," she sighed up the stairs after him, and John stayed silent because he still wasn't sure if he should say anything.

"John," Sherlock demanded as soon as he entered their flat, not looking up from sitting Molly down and getting her a glass of water, "I need you to stay with Molly now."

"What, me? Wher-"

"I need to go to work. I... I'm sorry," he muttered, and, giving Molly a surreptitious soft smile, he got up, brushed himself of and swept back out of the door past John, and John stood, dumbfounded in the middle of the room, as he heard the light clunking of footsteps descending the stairs and then the door open and slam, rather decisively.

For a minute or so, the flat was desperately silent. Molly was no longer sobbing, but looked mangled and weak amoungst the boxes on the couch. John felt awkward as he went to go and sit on the arm of the chair, but, as he did, he caught sight of his cane still leaning against the other chair, and it hit him that he'd been running all day without needing it once. He couldn't help but chuckle. Had Sherlock intended to do that? He really was a mystery.

"What's funny?" Molly asked quietly.

"It's... The cane... Nothing," John spluttered, and the room descended into silence again for a few moments, until John looked at Molly, and then her glass of water and smiled, "John Watson. Do you... want something stronger than that?"

"If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, Sherlock doesn't drink, so there's nothing in."

"He doesn't drink?"

"Yeah. I don't know how he does it."

John wasn't sure why he was hearing this all so suddenly.

"And you're... You're like him?" John asked. Molly looked at him, watery brown eyes meeting his plain hazel, and she bit her lip and chewed nervously.

"You could say. I- I get myself into a lot of trouble, and Sherlock's protective of me." She leant forward, and John could see her smudged makeup and see the small rip in her t-shirt, "And he's never mentioned you, Mr Watson."

"John is fine. That's because we met today- just..." John answered quickly.

"I'm jealous." Molly shrugged innocently.

"Jealous?"

"He likes you."

"You think so? Wait, I mean, that was supposed to be sarcastic... I don't mean..." John shut up promptly. After the events of the day, he didn't know what he meant.

"He won't say much to me. He doesn't say much to anyone. He's the only one I've got, John."

"You like him?"

She nodded, blushing. After what Sherlock had said earlier about business and pleasure, John could see where this was going, but kept silent anyway.

"He thinks he owes me something- just not what I'm looking for."

"I don't follow."

"He probably doesn't want you to know that. I can trust you, can't I, John?" Then she covered her mouth, as if in shock, "Unless... You and Sherlock are...?"

"We're potential flatmates, nothing more."

"Oh." She stopped there, as if she'd somehow managed to lose track of her own thoughts. Outside, it was beginning to drizzle, the late afternoon turning grey and the traffic beginning to peak as rush hour approached. John noticed that the Georgian windows were in need of a wash, and, despite insisting he was still thinking about his inhabitance in 221B, made a mental note to hire a window cleaner.

Molly shuffled uncomfortably in her seat.

"I want him to notice me," she said quietly. It sounded like she might cry again, and although he couldn't smell anything suspicious, he considered that she could, in fact, be tipsy. "But he's bound be this by this stupid professional or paternal loyalty to me, and I hate it."

Paternal? Was that really how Molly would describe it?

He intended to ask her exactly this, but, when he turned to her, he found that she was leant against the arm of the chair, hair splayed out of the fabric, eyes closed, and breathing softly, like the summer breeze over the wings of a butterfly. She sighed peacefully, and John reached over and tucked a small blanket around her, tenderly tucking it under her neck before he, himself, leant back, and let the sinking of the pillows and the rush of the traffic outside fill his senses, until his breathing slowed and he drifted into a mysterious world of teashops, tall men and cushions.


	7. Chapter 7

When John awoke, it was dark outside. Molly was still next to him, sighing softly all twisted up in her blanket, but her forehead was rested easily on John's shoulder and her hair was, if possible, more matted than before. John moved her head gently from his good shoulder and got up, pushing off his own blanket which he didn't remember pulling over himself. As he stretched, he noticed that the light was on in the bathroom and that the heavy maroon curtains had been pulled across the windows.

Rubbing his eyes, he shuffled towards the bathroom, manoeuvring about boxes,, and as he neared, he sleepily realised that he could hear noises on the other side of the door, which was ajar.

Was that Sherlock?

He squinted at his watch, and ran his stiff fingers through his hair. 3AM. He and Molly had fallen asleep quite early in the evening- if it could even be called that- and so it was only concomitant for John to arise in the premature hours of the morning.

"Sherlock?" he asked timidly, pushing open the door. It was, in fact, Sherlock, but he was hunched over the toilet. For a moment, John thought he was unconcious and rushed over, but as he tipped Sherlock's head back, lifting it ever so delicately from the seat of the toilet where he'd rested it, he saw two tired blue eyes staring up at him, unseeing, blinking at him in confusion. John bit his lip, and grabbed a yet unused flannel which he assumed belonged to the man, and, pushing his sweat jewelled hair out of the way, dabbed at his forehead.

"John," he said finally, thankfully sounding as if he had ahold of himself more than the situation had originally made out. "You're still here."

"Of course I am," John replied irately. He noticed that the white and blue shirt Sherlock had been wearing was ripped at the sleeve, and had been unbuttoned to a degree that would have been considered indecent on the streets of London. Though the rules must be different in Sherlock's case, John pondered. "What on earth have you done?"

"I told you," Sherlock began, but before he could finish, he leapt over the toilet bowl and threw up a bit- not much, it was more at the black bile stage- and slumped back down again, John wiping his mouth with the damp and now warm. "I was working."

"And... Are you ill?"

"No."

"Did you eat something funny?" John asked, ignoring his last answer.

"No," Sherlock exhaled heavily.

"Did you eat at all?"

"No. If you must know, sex makes my stomach uneasy."

"And sweaty?"

"Are you a virgin, John? Yes, it did, I had two clients and I ran home. Happy?"

"No," John snapped, before rubbing his eyes and taking a deep breath. This wasn't Sherlock's life choice. Not really. "I'm not a virgin, and I-"

"Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No."

"Do you have a boyfriend then?"

"I...! What- no."

"It's alright with me if you do, you know."

"Of course it is, I know it's alright- you... Why did you run home?"

"Hackney, at 2am? Is Molly still here?" he enquired, his voice peaking into alto to show his interest, as if getting bored by the former line of enquiry John was taking.

"You ran all the way from _Hackney_?"

"On and off. Is Molly still here?" He asked again.

John steadily poured a glass of water from the tap and handed it to Sherlock. "Of course, she's asleep. She was talking about you."

"That's nice." Droll. Not really whining anymore, perhaps done with the idea of being ill. It seemed Sherlock, could, in fact, pick and choose what mood he would be in without any "human" inflictions- much like choosing what one should put on one's toast.

"She likes you, you know, Sherlock," John pushed. Sherlock observed the water, as if it was some sort of comic poison spurting green smoke, but, giving a cock of his left eyebrow, raised the glass to his lips and sipped at it, and pulled a face- though the facial reaction was for what John had just said, and not the water, as John considered for a split second.

"Again, that's nice. Why, do you not like me, John Watson?"

"I... You're a difficult sod," he smiled, "But you're smart, and spontaneous to say the least, and yes, I do like you. But Molly like likes you."

"Like likes?" he asked, and John stared at him in disbelief. He had to be putting it on, he thought- he was a hooker, for fuck's sake, of course he knew the school playground talk as well as he did the backstreets of London. Which was pretty well, judging by the complexity of the route he'd made the taxi take on the way back to 221B earlier; something John thought to be a bit of a pointless exercise, seen as this Sebastian Moran knew where they were if he needed to come after Sherlock.

"I know," Sherlock interrupted sharply as John opened his mouth to speak. Slumping back against the tiles, his blue eyes turned directly to John as he implored, "I've heard this all before. John, it's my job to make women fall in love with me."

John snorted. "You have no idea how much I want to punch you when you say that." He was grinning, because it was intended as a joke, but when he saw Sherlock's expression fall, he realised his blunder and wanted to punch himself instead. Idiot, John Watson.

"Sherlock, I didn't..." he blundered, and, slightly to his surprise, Sherlock's face straightened again; though not fully, just into a kind of lethargic, meagre curving of his rosy lips.

"I understand," he mumbled. He didn't want to feel sorry for himself, nor did he want anyone else to feel sorry for him. Or at least, such was what John could deduce, as the younger man unfolded his awkwardly long and gangling limbs and then leapt to his feet with surprising velocity.

"Coffee?" he asked, ridiculously chipper again.

"Bloody hell, you're going to be a nightmare to live with if coffee at 3am is the norm round here," John cursed, though the mellow tone of voice he utilised for the reprimand wasn't particularly in situ with the content.

Then again, nothing around this damnable flat made any sense. Just to start- Molly was still there, while Sherlock and John conversed about arabica in the small bathroom. Then there was the fact that John was discussing arabica, being an invariable tea drinker; and with Sherlock Holmes no less: this brilliant yet "low" man, who John had no doubt was intelligent enough to become a detective as John had once considered him to be should it have, in the past, taken his fancy, yet he was doing something illegal and degrading for the money. And money was nothing to him. But to him, and, John guessed, probably Molly (what else had she meant by "paternal" other than financially?) money was essentially, freedom.

"No, it's not."

"Wha-"

And then there was something else to do with Sherlock's occupation. And it had taken John a few minutes to pick up on it- but he was pretty sure that, despite never having homosexual tendancies ever before in his life, this stranger was making him steadily hot under the collar. He could feel a blush rising faster up his cheeks as the other man grinned at him, staring intently, and John realised that he had left the last word he'd said hanging because he'd become engrossed in watching how the other man moved.

Every twitch, every shuffle, was precise and sophisticated- it was fascinating.

And all so sudden for John to notice. It hit him a bit too hard, really, and as he did begin to understand that this man in front of him was working some kind of technique on it, his already flustered, schoolgirl-like movements became clumsy and confused, and he stepped away, promptly tripping up on absolutely nothing.

He landed with a thunk on the floor.

"Ow," he exclaimed through gritted teeth, feeling old as he reached out blindly to his side for the aid of his cane. Yet, of course, he'd not been using it, and consequently, it of course wasn't there. What was there, however, was a hand, outstretched to aid him, in front of his very nose; and behind it, a concerned gaze.

"Thanks," John flushed as his accepted it, and was bought to his feet quickly by some surprising strength of Sherlock Holmes. The only problem being that his was now in sudden close proximity to the man, having the leverage been in the natural direction of to his torso, and John found himself backing away once again, though thankfully this time not tripping over his own feet.

"No coffee then," Sherlock supposed, a hint of sadness coating his words. John shook his head, in a non-direct way, suddenly not wishing to impede his own departure.

"It's been nice meeting you, Sherlock," he said gruffly.

"Wait," Sherlock interjected, stopping himself reaching out for John's arm, "Aren't you staying? A flatshare?"

John snorted softly, his face slowly splitting into a little grin. "If it's still on the cards, then... I... um... I guess so."

And with that, John left for home. Or, at least, he left, with the intention of returning to his poky, one bedroomed flat in the suburbs, but for some reason, when he stepped out into the street outside 221B, the night air biting at his cheeks, he found a set of headlights blinding him as a sleek black BMW pulled up onto the kurb outside the door.

"Get in," was all he heard, as the car door opened, in a sharp, nasally drawling voice. That, and the ominous click: something that undoubtedly belonged to the shiny hilt of a gun pressed up against his temples.


	8. An Early Morning Ride

John was in shock. To be honest, he was shitting himself in fear too, but, as an ex-soldier, he defied his own sentiment and remained deadly cool, if not in a stupor of dumb silence, as he ducked into the car, gun following him inside. He couldn't think, let alone speak, and so concentrated of not moving suddenly or looking threatening in any way- sure, things might have been different in Afghanistan, but out there he'd had comrades at his back and a sandbagged wall to his side, and the firing range was certainly longer. It didn't matter that he himself had a gun in the back of his trousers. This, he thought, as the door was closed behind them, was very different. He had a small but powerful pistol jostling against his forehead at point blank range; and at the moment, he had absolutely no method for discerning why.

"John Watson," came the voice again, and suddenly, John snapped out of it. It may or may not have had something to do with the fact that the slim man who had been holding the gun to his head had now brought it gently away and stowed it into a rather sleek looking strap at his side; or it may have been that they were moving now, cruising casually away from 221B like they had never just abducted an innocent man from the pavement. Either way, John turned around, and found himself face to face with his kidnapper.

"How do you know my name?" was the best thing he could not think about saying, but unfortunately the words blurted stupidly out of his mouth anyway.

The man smiled, a thin, tired, yet still surprisingly candid, despite the ungodly hour. Speaking of which; the ungodly hour which John certainly felt, both in the dull tiredness in his limbs, and the thin film of sweat and grit that seemed to be remenant of the excitement of the day. Not to mention, of course, the dull ache of hunger and emptiness in his stomach, telling him that he hadn't eaten much since breakfast other than the sugary, milky coffee with Mike and the bite of soggy toast in the teashop. Boy, did that feel like an age ago, he thought, as his eyes flicked about the man's face, dancing with the streetlights flickering across his face from outside the car window, and the seedy smile that crossed his features.

He was wearing a suit, and a rather expensive one at that, from what John could make of the tailorwork in the dark- he was no expert, but such neat stitching and stiff shoulders could only have come with a neat price tag; though of course, the aloof air of the man also carried the clue. However, he didn't seem to be a man immune to a hard day's, or night's, as John suspected, work, judging by the grey bags under the somehow familiar eyes giving him a jugemental scan.

"I know everything I need to." His tone was no let down- it was drawling as it had been before, but also slightly menacing.

"Then... If you know everything, I don't suppose you'd... um... like to tell me why your... associate, happens to like to t-threaten me with a gun? Or, indeed, why I'm here, perhaps?" John tried to keep his tone light, so not to provoke the jab of a pistol in the small of his back again, but sat up the leather seat and spoke directly, so to at least attempt to create the impression that he wasn't afraid.

"I'm simply taking you home, Mr Watson." His eyes flashed dangerously.

"R-Really...?"

"Yes, though, naturally, I'd like to take care of some... business, on the way." He spoke as if he was straight out of playing a Bond villian in the cinema, all that was missing being a cat to stroke and perhaps an ominous secret drawer. John was still confused, though now to add to this, there was the bemusement that something so surreally trite was happening to him, of all people; and also slightly annoyed: he was tired, he was hungry, he was in good need of a shower and he really needed to think clearly for a bit in the comfort of his own quiet flat, about fake detectives and kisses in tube stations and a hefty three million quid price on his potential flatmate's head. This man was obstructing all that, and really being quite difficult about it, almost sneering constantly at John.

"Well, get on with it then," he said through gritted teeth. The man tapped on his umbrella, wedged down the side of the seat and poking into the footwell.

"I daresay I should introduce myself." John inhaled sharply through his teeth. "Mycroft Holmes at your service. I do believe you've had the," he sucked his breath in, " _pleasure_ , of aquainting yourself, should I say, comfortably, with my little brother this afternoon."

"You're... Sherlock's brother?" John asked.

To be perfectly honest, he was annoyed with himself for that, for not knowing that. It was obvious- he'd only ever met one other person who acted the way this man did, and that was Sherlock.

On the other hand, there were also major differences- the most obvious, of course, being the wealth, having seen Sherlock taking a taxi with indignation to the tip he was expected, by culture, to leave; not to mention the sheer lack of possessions Sherlock had to his admittedly young age, against his brother's car and assistants, and chauffeur. Mycroft Holmes didn't look nearly as outgoing as Sherlock, either, favouring fancy suits and probably fancy dining, judging by his less than fanciful pudgy waistline, to beating up spies in back alleys.

"That is what I said. And I have a proposition for you, John."

First name basis, was it now, John thought sourly. "Wait, _Mycroft_ ," he said with derision, "You're not a pimp or something are you?" He had to ask, and he wasn't about to sugar coat it for this snide man. It disgusted John to hear the back of the car tinkle with degrading laughter. Even the bodyguard type man to his other side shuffled nervously in his seat.

"Not at all. That's not my business."

"What is your business?"

"Nothing particularly interesting," Mycroft hummed, which had always meant something incredibly juicy when John's parents had scorned him with that in his youth. He made a mental note to ask Sherlock, as well as rant at him.

"And what gives you the impression I will take you up on this proposition? Business?"

"Nothing. A proposition is a proposition, John."

"Go on." John may as well get it out of him- though they had at least another ten minutes, he thought, until his flat, though it was heard to tell the route they were taking.

"I want you to keep an eye on Sherlock. And by that, I mean never let him our of your sight. I want to know what he gets up to."

"Right, yes, I'll follow him around brothels and the streets of London. Are you fucking serious?"

Mycroft's brows furrowed, but something on his face cracked, like he was done with the pretences and swinging a bit more street. John could tell now that while he may have held a cushy position, he was used to the mean streets. He wondered if he was lying about being a pimp- judging by the creepy level of control he was looking for on Sherlock, it was hardly impossible.

"Why yes, John, I am _fucking serious_. Although seen as I'm a generous man," he said, snide, but returning back to being the standoffish gentleman, "I have the capacity to offer a decent incentive."

And with that, he produced a small piece of plastic; a credit card, from his breast pocket, and John saw his own name flashing on it. At first, he thought it was his and Mycroft had stolen it, but then he realised he didn't have an American Express, and a chill ran up his spine. Mycroft had made that account under his name. It would have had to have been in the last twelve hours, too, seen as that was about how long John had known Sherlock. All that paperwork processed in such a sort amount of time? Either that was a fake, or, as seemed more likely, Mycroft had a lot of power in the banks.

"How dare you create that account in my name," John seethed, "And how dare you claim you're not a pimp, when you're so eager to sell my friend- your own brother- out to me."

"Just friends, is it?" he smiled deviously, and John felt himself flush red. It all came rushing back to him, the closeness, the kiss especially. Of course there wasn't anything, he thought, though there was a little voice in his head that had been there years before that moment, that was laughing mirthlessly at him as if he had told a terrible joke in front of a sellout crowd at the O2 Arena.

Mycroft's laugh rang in John's ears, like bells tolling, with disapproval. It was clear it was more than just banks he had power in.

"So you won't? It's for his own safety, you know."

"His own safety?" John was fuming. _Who the fuck did this man think he was?_ "He's a prostitute, for godssake. There isn't anything less safe," he laughed drily.

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Mycroft replied quietly.

"No, I wouldn't be. I'm not doing anything for you. I haven't even decided if I'll live with him or not," he said through gritted teeth. In that moment, the car rolled to a stop, and Mycroft looked out of the window expectantly, a small smile creasing it's way across his lips as he turned back to John, and handed him a piece of notepaper.

"I thought that would be your answer. However, should you ever change your mind, or... require my services, then this is my number."

And with that, the man, who had been dormant at John's left, grabbed him roughly by the collar, not at all giving the soldier time to react as he was shoved roughly out of the car, tripping on to the pavement and desperately scrambling for the wall in the dark, as the door behind him slammed and the car slipped away without a sound.

He watched it go, running a clammy hand through his hair. He'd dedicated himself to nothing. He had nothing to do with this family; he could turn away now, never think about either of them again. Sherlock didn't even have his number (though this Mycroft probably did, through some sort of dodgy dealing).

However, there was a strange tugging in the pit of his stomach that longed for the game; the excitement and adrenaline that came with Sherlock Holmes, and, as he turned dismally to what appeared to be the front door of his apartment building, he knew that, whether he felt it to be sensible or not, he would inevitably return to Baker Street the following day, and it would all start from there.


	9. Dented Memory

When John had rolled over onto his back the next morning, he didn't find it rather cliché that he'd forgotten almost everything from the previous day, because he'd forgotten what he was supposed to have forgotten. It could have involved copious amounts of alcohol, judging by the fact that his head was pounding as he massaged it lightly, squinting dumbly at the chink of light flooding through the curtains of his small bedsit. He blinked away the bleariness in his eyes, and yawned, trying not to notice the time glaring at him from the clock that wasn't an alarm clock by the side of his suddenly all too comfortable bed.

It was only then that he realised that he was still wearing his clothes from yesterday. He scrunched his face up as he smelt his sleeve, disgusted with his own drunken lack of cleanliness.

And that was the moment that John decided that sleeping in until eleven with a hangover simply wasn't acceptable. He was very annoyed with himself, especially that everything from yesterday appeared to have gone from inside his brain, and launched his feet out from beneath the crumpled duvet and set them gingerly on the floor, reaching automatically for his cane, which had mysteriously vanished.

"Fuck," he told the flat. Where on earth could one's walking stick get to by itself? Or rather, what on earth could one do with one's walking stick to embarrass oneself in a state of alcohol-induced disarray? He hated to think.

Thankfully though, his leg didn't seem to be conspiring against him today. Not that it mattered if it did, he thought dully as he got up, and then, as he shuffled to the bathroom, he couldn't help but notice that it was actually better than that. There was no pain whatsoever. This wasn't a just good day, he thought, as he picked up a towel: this was a brilliant day.

Besides the whole retrograde amnesia, of course.

It got even better when he could sink into a hot shower and use a nice shampoo that belonged to an ex-girlfriend. It was some female variety, that he hadn't known he'd even owned since she'd left him months ago after what was pretty much a three night stand, but, in a bid for soap the previous week, had come across it in his cabinet. John didn't know if he had "dry hair"; but he did know that the green gel smelt like apple and kiwi and that was _divine_.

Unfortunately, this was where his luck ended, as there was a violent banging at the door.

"S-hit," he swore for the second time that day, the misty shower cubicle swallowing up the sound of his voice. He paused in rising, hoping it would disappear, but whoever it was knocked again rather persistently, and so John huffed and grabbed a towel. He never had visitors, he thought dismally, turning off the shower and wrapping the towel cautiously around his waist. Why now, of all times?

They were knocking again when John plodded across the carpet, and John frowned. He stood to the side of the door, so only his head peeked round, thinking that he could send whoever it was (perhaps the postman) on their way without anyone having to see him half-naked, dripping shampoo and lukewarm water onto the carpet.

Cautiously, he pulled the latch across and pulled the door ajar.

Unfortuantely, the person on the other side of the door had other ideas, as John felt his grip of the handle slip and the door fling open to reveal a tall stranger stepping into the apartment and observing him amusedly, closing the door behind him.

"Y-You!" he cried, feeling amazingly exposed.

"John," said a deep voice. Sherlock's eyes seemed to devour every detail on every inch of his body, catching interestedly on the puckering, purple-hued skin on his left shoulder. "Oh."

"W-Wha-" John spluttered. Was that all he could say? "Turn around! How do you know where I live?!"

"I've-" Sherlock went to protest, but then that didn't really sit well with how red his usually pale cheeks had gone, so he shut up and turned around as John had told him to. "I was going to say that we haven't much time, but I can see that probably doesn't matter now," he chuckled awkwardly.

John was beginning to shiver, longing for the humid paradise that he had created in the bathroom. Alas, Sherlock was... well, Sherlock, simply put. It was clearly of his basic nature to be a complete and utter pain in the arse, invariably.

And yet, John hadn't kicked him out yet. He could, easily, though not literally booting him, as he'd fear for his decency in such the get-up. He decided not to pursue questioning Sherlock on how he got John's address. He'd rather not know.

Shampoo stung his left eye.

"W-What on earth for?"

"A case," Sherlock came back with, but added, "Sorry," when he felt John's expression sour with the joke. "No. Well, not really, I..." He wandered towards the window and peeked through the curtains. "I need your help again."

"Why me?"

"You're a doctor..." Though that didn't explain anything.

Sherlock was really rubbing John up the wrong way already with his lack of general detail and strange mannerisms- though he couldn't help but think that there was something else he was annoyed about. He also wanted to point out that he wasn't examining any intimate body parts for Sherlock.

"By the way, what happened to your head?" he asked, and John instinctively put his hand to his forehead.

"I was washi-" then stopped, as he winced in pain. Quite a nasty brui- "Wait! I remember now, dammit! Sherlock Holmes, what the _hell_ is your brother's problem!" he was yelling all of a sudden, and didn't even notice that Sherlock turned to face him. He was fuming. "I left ou- your place, and I have a _gun_ ," he illustrated with his free hand (the one not holding his towel in place) "Pressed to my head, and get told to get into some fancy-arse car, where I meet your positively _charming_ brother who asks me to "watch you" for him, whatever the fuck his twisted mind meant by that," John spat. Sherlock didn't look shocked, or offended, by any of what John had said.

"So how did you bang your head?" he inquired quietly.

"REALLY?! That's what you ask?! I banged it on a cabinet because I was too preoccupied thinking about your CREEPY brother!"

"I'm sorry. I did mention he'd probably want to talk to you."

"When did you say that?"

"In the underground."

John stopped there. He couldn't be mad then- he'd slept since then, and it was still pretty hazy, so he couldn't remember much exact conversation between him and Sherlock, or, for that matter, Mycroft. Plus, Sherlock did look quite sorry.

"How does he know who I am and all that?" John asked dumbly. Sherlock drew a sharp breath, staring off into a space just above John's head before looking him in the eye to answer.

"His business; he has people everywhere. People that can hack CCTV and manipulate it, government files, guys on street corners. He's... Stupidly powerful," Sherlock added.

"What business is this, exactly? He's not...?"

"John, please, not everyone I know works in the sex industry."

"S-Sorry." John's teeth were chattering.

"It's fine," Sherlock said, unusually abashed. "You're close anyway. Drugs."

"D-Drugs?" John didn't want to jump to any conclusions- not after the whole detective debacle, so he played it dumb.

"The illegal kind, John. The type that make a man like my brother a millionaire before twenty-four. Though he's completely clean himself."

If anything, this just disconcerted John's perspective of everything. He'd basically ridden home with a car and men paid for with dirty drug money. And to think; Mycroft any other day was just another business man on the tube or in a café... Just like Sherlock. His eyes had been truly opened to the secrets of London's underground culture.

Just then, John felt something heavy about his shoulders. He looked up to see Sherlock's coat being draped around him, it's rough fabric grazing the scar tissue on his collar.

"S-Sherlock-k... What a-are you d-doi-"

"You know perfectly well what I'm doing," he interrupted curtly. John felt his cheeks heat up considerably, leaving his mind in a bit of state over whether or not he was too hot or too cold, consequently making him feel rather ill. His head began to spin and he backed away, concentrating on keeping the towel wrapped about his hips. Sherlock was observing him with a frown.

"John?" he asked cautiously, and suddenly, John snapped up straight and marched off to the bathroom to finish his shower, with not a word to Sherlock, slamming the door behind him. He removed the coat, tossing it on the floor, and leapt back into the now less comfortable shower, cursing the way his head throbbed as he eased himself under the hot water and wondering what on Earth would be in store for him today.


	10. Office

According to Sherlock, the cabinet that he'd hit his head on in search of food had suffered a similar bashing to that which his head had received. There was a sizeable dent in it, though John had a funny feeling that may have been from punching it after hitting his head, though he didn't tell Sherlock this. After all, whether he remembered what had happened or not, alcohol still could have been involved after such a day.

Naturally, Sherlock knew about this dent because while John had been finishing his shower, for a stubbournly long time, Sherlock had somehow located some cardboard boxes (he had a funny feeling it had something to do with the woman living upstairs who hoarded such items) and began to pack the contents of the flat into them. It certainly was a sorry sight to see the entire (pitiful) contents of his cupboards and fridge rattling around in the bottom of a banana box, especially when he never gave permission for them to be there at all.

And to think, yesterday, all he'd done was offer Sherlock a hand of help on impulse. Now, it seemed, he was definitely moving in to a flat of which he'd only seen one room.

"Um... What is this?" he asked, gritting his teeth in vague irritation. Strangely enough, he wasn't as annoyed as he probably should have been- Sherlock had that effect on him.

"I thought I'd help. But it's fine now," he put the box down with a clatter, and strolling towards the door, "We've got things to do."

"We?" John frowned. The air about him went still, and Sherlock surveyed him, eyes glacial and unblinking. "I-It's just..." John's voice shook and faltered.

How was he to put it?

_Yep, Sherlock, you're a nutcase, of course I'm not coming with you, I felt sorry for you yesterday..._

Of course not. It wasn't really as if John felt that way; he thought he should feel that way, but, despite all the snags and tight spots Sherlock had gotten and could get John into, he was a brilliantly intriguing man, and John couldn't just say no to him and not live to regret it.

Alas, for the second time that week, he found himself standing at the crossroads of his life. If he walked out with Sherlock, god knows what could go wrong. But if he stayed put, he'd be facing months; perhaps years more of himself, and his meagre existence in the world, after seeing so much.

Inhaling, he forced a smile, but, as Sherlock smiled back, slyly, he couldn't help but smile naturally in observation of Sherlock's keen, puppy-like fidgeting.

"Nothing. We can come back for this later?"

"Sure!"

\------------------------------------

Sherlock had been very secretive of his plans again.

As he'd said, "I work on the element of surprise in my field," which could have almost made him sound like a detective, except John was pretty sure that it was dirtier work that Sherlock did than one's average detective inspector was used to.

Still, John hadn't at all imagined that Sherlock would have any business where they had pulled up to in the taxi: a long, elegant row of terraced buildings, mostly offices, painted in a clean white, each with poker straight wrought iron fencing guarding the paved garden feature and neatly potted plants. Sherlock got out, payed the cabbie, and, hands in his pockets, strolled towards the nearest gate, so John really saw his only option to be to follow the hooker's lead.

He shivered as he stepped from the taxi, his breath curling up in the air in little white wisps. Sherlock was waiting for him as the taxi pulled away, holding open the gate so they could ascend the steps side by side, in a sombre, yet not awkward, silence.

Until John couldn't bear it any longer, that was, and broke it.

"W-Where are we?"

"N-N-Nice, i-isn't i-it?" Sherlock's teeth chattered now. He seemed to be feeling the effects of the cold rather quickly, John noted, wondering why he only had the coat, which was too big for him, and no scarf or anything, if he knew that he was so intolerant to the November weather. "I-It's not w-w-what you'd exp-pect-t it t-t-to be," he smiled shakily, before placing a pale hand on the brass handle and opening the door.

Almost immediately, John felt the heat rushing onto his face. It was so amazingly contrasting to step from the below freezing temperatures of a winter's day into the toasty warmth of this household, whatever it was. Sherlock, not surprisingly, was quite eager to close the door, and so John found himself plunged into semi-darkness of a hallway he didn't know.

John's senses came alive. Sherlock's arm brushed his in the thin corridor as he lead him down, past a grand wooden staircase and down the corridor, of which there were an almost ridiculous amount of doors to his left along the wall opposite the staircases. The decor was cheap, yet oddly lavish; old velvet curtains with a gleaming gold tieback trimming some of the doors, and an interesting item of furniture half way down the hall which John and Sherlock had to manoeuvre themselves around: a kind of mottled, varnished bureau.

Each step John took filled him not only with interest, but also with dread, as he couldn't help but feel Sherlock's restlessness mounting a step ahead of himself. He felt a bit bad for punishing Sherlock by spending extravagantly longer in the shower.

At last, they reached a ominous door. Large, forboding, and the only one of it's kind- a huge, oaken slab, structured tightly in it's frame much like the front door they'd just come through. There was a woman stood to one side of it, smoking a cigarette. She was like Sherlock, in that she was a prostitute, though more obviously so; the black dress she was wearing barely covered her bony hips, and she was slunk across the doorframe, fiddling with the studs hugging her waist and looking at Sherlock through her black-rimmed eyes.

"You better be here to cheer him up, freak," she said sulkily, nodding at the door, before her eyes flicked away from his face and behind his dark coat to John, who felt rather inferior being scanned by this rare specimen of a woman.

He had a really violent urge to grab hold of Sherlock's sleeve, perhaps even go so far as to pull him back down the hallway The way they'd came and jump straight back into the taxi.

He swallowed as the girl leant forward, putting her long fingers on Sherlock's shoulder. "Oh, an accomplice? What a change."

"He bats for the other team, so kurb your enthusiasm," Sherlock snapped.

John was too busy minding that he didn't breathe too loudly to hear him telling her this, but was relieved nevertheless when the woman snapped away, returning to her position on the wall. Sherlock said nothing more as she added, "I wasn't interested, weirdo," but simply plucked the cigarette from between her lips, took a long drag, and then stubbed it out on the doorframe, where, although John hadn't previously noticed, there were lots of similar tar-hued stains.

And with that, Sherlock gave a sharp knock at the heavy looking door, ignoring any evil glares that this woman might have been directing at him or his "accomplice", and, after politely waiting for an incoherent yell of some variety from the other side, leant in to open it. John leapt in behind him, glad to be shot of the sulky woman, before he found himself in the corner of what appeared to be a...?

John wasn't sure how to describe it. Firstly, he never knew that one could tell a room had been used for sex before, but seemingly, John was overwhelmed with such the sense when the air from inside the room hit him in the face (yet again)- a kind of warm, perfume and sweat-tinged atmosphere, almost coating his very being like a nectar, and suddenly making him feel more relaxed. Of course, maybe without the knowledge John had, the room could simply be described as "stuffy", but, from John's point of view, it was the final pointer that he was, in fact, inside a real brothel.

There wasn't actually a bed in the room. It was dark, and only dimly lit by a few lamps along the walls, giving quite a soft shadow across the face of the man seated at the couch, surrounded by what looked like files.

"My," Lestrade said, eyeing John cautiously, and boldly projecting his voice across the room, "If it isn't the one and only. Sherlock."

"Before you ask," Sherlock mumbled, and pulled his shirt up slightly to extract, rather typically, the bag of cash John had seen him take from Sebastian Moran the previous day, from the waistband of his trousers, and curtly stroll over and put it on the coffee table in front of the grey-haired man.

He observed it for a second, and then, without warning, lunged at Sherlock, executing a move similar to the ones John had seen Sherlock use, grabbing him by his shirt and twisting him so that he slammed down on the table, Lestrade quickly controlling him by shoving a knee roughly down into Sherlock's crotch so that every jerk Lestrade gave made Sherlock squirm violently.

The woman outside had obviously come into the room upon hearing the disturbance, because, as soon as John went to move to help his... whatever Sherlock was to him... there was an arm on his shoulder, and he heard the flick of a penknife and a sharp feeling on his Adam's apple.

 _Fuck_ , he thought.

"Firstly," Lestrade began, enjoying watching Sherlock's chest struggling to rise and fall normally with the pressure of Lestrade's hand holding him to the mahogany table, "Who the fuck is you're little friend?" He nodded his head towards John. "I would have thought you'd have more sense to leave him at home. He better not be an officer. I swear, I'll-"

"Of course not," Sherlock interrupted through gritted teeth, "Do you really think that after _everything_ I've done I'd go and make friends with a police officer?"

"Don't fucking talk to me like that, _sunshine_ ," Lestrade snarled, moving in to Sherlock aggressively. John could only watch, stood stock still, hoping, as Sherlock noticed John's position and seemed to back down to the man, shaking his head slightly before continuing.

Please," he begged, "Sally, put that knife down, I swear on my life he's got no connections to the police whatsoever." John wasn't at all going to point out that Sherlock didn't necessarily know that for sure, especially when Sherlock was right, bluffing or not, as the so-called Sally still had the knife pressed up against his jugular.

Judging by how he'd seen Sherlock reacting to Lestrade so far, he had no doubt that if Lestrade wanted his throat slit, Sally wouldn't hesitate in doing the dirty work.

"He's a homo, apparently, right, freak?" came the voice from behind John's head. Both John and Sherlock flinched at the harshness of the term. Particularly John, his new sexual orientation being news to him; but as this didn't seem to be the time to tell anyone otherwise, he went with it. "What is he, a fuck-buddy? Surely not a client..."

"Neither. We're just friends."

"And you decided to bring your "friend" here?" Lestrade snapped.

"Since when did you care who- ah!- came here as long as they paid well?" Sherlock almost whimpered, and there was a pause as Lestrade considered this argument.

"Jesus," he said eventually, after what seemed like an age, "Let him go, Sally," he said, and the knife dropped away from John's throat and he fell to his knees almost immediately, inhaling shallowly.

"I don't know what you're up to, Sherlock, but I'm going to let you get away with it, so long as you keep out of trouble. One slip up," he drew a finger across his throat menacingly, glaring at John as he did so.

John gulped.

"Can you... get off... now..." Sherlock protested feebly. Lestrade laughed drily.

"I can _get off_ , sure, and boy, do you know how to help me. But I'm not done." Lestrade dropped his hips, bringing him closer to Sherlock, and John watched as he ran a finger up the side of his bare neck, gently, and grabbing his jaw tightly, with his wrist pressing down on Sherlock's throat just as the knife had been at John's only a few moments previously. His face was only centimetres from the prostitute's, when he spoke quietly, almost too quiet for John to hear; "I'm watching you, Holmes. You think you can get away with shit because you're the best, well, don't think I wouldn't bring you down if I wanted to. I don't allow fuck-ups. One more time," he said, picking up the bag of money, "And you're in for it."

And with that, he sprang back from the dark haired man, standing up and letting Sherlock untense on the table, flinching a bit before silently too, getting to his feet. The money was stashed into Lestrade's pocket, and Sherlock walked back over to John, dropping his impassive expression when his back was to Lestade and bending down to help a confused and rather afriad John back up. He was wearing an apologetic, sympathetic look, mouthing "I'm sorry". It was the most emotion John had seen on the man's face since they'd met- and how long ago that seemed!

When John was on his feet, grasping Sherlock's hand like a child, Sherlock turned to the woman at the door, who was staring at them with a look of disgust.

"You can go now. Your input is not needed."

"Whatever, freak," she replied, though she did leave without much more fuss, leaving Sherlock to lead John to the sofa opposite where Lestrade had repositioned himself, and they both sat down, all too civily.

"I need to tell you something." John still somehow had hold of Sherlock's hand, but was too dumbstruck to let go. Sherlock clenched it momentarily, as if to connote that this applied to him also.

"Better be good. I've got shit to do."

"I realise," Sherlock said calmly. "You remember Molly Hooper, Lestrade?" When he clearly didn't, Sherlock expanded. "I pay her way. Small, thin lips, brunette. Meeker than the others."

"Oh yeah, the one that fancies you. Yeah, I know her, she doesn't really come back here very often. What about her? This better be important..."


	11. Encounters With Lestrade

Despite the grovelling efforts Sherlock had been displaying only moments before, he seemed to have relaxed considerably, and was by no means looking to be obsequious to any degree towards Lestrade now. Though he'd yet to untangle John's hand from his clammy own (quite the opposite- he gripped at it with a ferocious strength that could only be an indicator of the true fear Sherlock had buried within him in that moment), he unwound most of the rest of himself- stretching his legs under the low table, cracking the knuckles on his free hand with his thumb, and exhaling slowly, with no hint at a rush. John liked to think this was a tactic. He liked to think many things were. He wanted this to make Lestrade listen to what he had to say, though, by the looks of it, the sudden display of procrastinationing actions was making Lestrade's left eye twitch a bit in irritation, like a cartoon character. Perhaps Sherlock sensed this; but most likely not: it was simply John's pure luck that meant that Sherlock opened his mouth just before Lestrade threw whatever he was toying with in his pocket at him.

"You, of course, know the name of the man with whom I fought for the money yesterday?"

"Sebastian..."

"Moran," Sherlock finished for him.

"What does he have to do with Molly? He's just a client who didn't want to pay up. So what?"

"He wasn't an ordinary client and you know it."

"What?"

"Oh." He seemed genuinely caught off guard; surprised. "Well," Sherlock leant back a bit, "Maybe you don't. I assumed that as you had his wherabouts yesterday for me to track him down, you had some background information."

"Who the hell do you think I am, a bobby?" Lestrade's brows furrowed. John couldn't tell if Sherlock was panicking, but he certainly was, watching the vein in his temple throbbing dangerously. It was quite obvious that Lestrade was a very self-important and short-tempered man, and John hated that Sherlock had managed to go this far in playing him about. He guessed it was because of what Lestrade had said before, that Sherlock was "the best" (presumably prostitute), that it meant he thought he could get away with more. As an outsider, John could see it was a fine line, and prayed that Sherlock knew how to toe it.

"I-"

"Sherlock, I may have contacts, but I'm not fucking God, alright? If you're trying to tell me you're in some kind of shit with some other pimp then it's not my fucking division to be dealin' with, got it? I had a guy who just spotted him coming in the direction he always goes, like a routine, and he tipped me off."

"No, no, that's not it," Sherlock stroked his eyebrows, shutting his eyes to concentrate for a moment. "Look, I know a man with ulterior motives when I sleep with one, and there was only so many motives he could have. We were all set to ambush him in the station, except he heard us and turned back around aga-"

"Look, Sherlock, I don't have time for this, you know: look, you've got the money, what more do I nee-"

"It won't just be money you'll lose if you don't listen," Sherlock snapped darkly, and, surprisingly, Lestrade didn't argue. "I took John to the only place he could think of that he could be associated with- that place near where they make those good dumplings." Lestrade nodded, obviously knowledgable as to what he was referencing- as was John, as far as remembering the shape of the nook they'd hidden in, and the way Sebastian's head had hit the door when he was tackled to the ground; but not what the purpose of that door was. "You know it's a-"

"Of course," Lestrade snapped, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"So you see what I'm getting at, but it's not anything special. Except that an hour after I retrieve what he owed me, plus interest, Molly found John and I in a teashop a few miles away, and she was not in a good state."

"Is she ever in a good st-"

" _Shut up_." Lestrade tensed angrily, and John winced as he thought he was going to make a crude lunge, but he stayed still. Sherlock didn't even seem to notice, continuing his story in a lower, more dangerous sounding voice. "I daresay you're oblivious to the condition of your less _favoured_ employees, but Molly was assaulted."

 _Shit_ , John hadn't she said- oh, well, wait, he cursed inwardly, it was obvious! Why else would a woman like that- well, in that position socially- enter a small tea shop and run panicking into Sherlock's arms with a single shoe and streaky mascara had something bad not have happened?

Molly had said Sherlock protected her. Of course.

And he did- but he couldn't this time, John thought, and he found himself gazing up at the man sat by his side, all of a sudden feeling as if he was sat in his skin and feeling exactly the way he did. Scared, alone, trying to protect the things that are important to him, to make up for not keeping Molly from harm. John wasn't sure if he should have felt it, but there was a pang of empathy running hot through his chest, and he almost gave into the urge to squeeze Sherlock's hand in support, but was deterred, when Lestrade spoke.

"Then Molly should have told me. I'm not a mind reader, Sherlock. Neither am I a sleuth. Did it enter your head that Sebastian might have just been in a bad mood after you punched his lights out and got hold of the first girl in a short skirt who crossed his path!?" Lestrade had risen from his seat, and was now leant over the table, spitting as he yelled at Sherlock, unremarkably overlooking John's existence yet again. "If you're about to tell me that because you fucked this guy, and then he gets to your little bitch, that's some amazing evidence that I should watch my back, then I really am going to slit your throat, Sherlock. I swear-"

"There was something she wouldn't tell me, I know there's something not right-"

"I don't _care_ , Sherlock! I don't give a shit! You come in here demanding my attention all of a sudden, thinking I haven't got better things to do than run around after your whimsical suspicions, well, you and your little fuck-buddy can go back and do what you're supposed to do, and that is to get paid."

He then leant back, rocking on his heels, and chuckled wickedly and softly. He had the psychotic villian look covered. "Because, let's face it, both you and Molly have got to keep your stupid little mouths shut, about whatever shit you have a reason to pretend to get yourselves into, because _I own your freedom_. You work for me. Don't forget that. And now, get the fuck out of my office," he turned to John, "And take your t-"

"Don't you _dare_ ," Sherlock spat, dragging John to his feet. His movements were violent and angry, but not out of control- he was more a sort of silent angry, letting go of John's hand to turn up the collars of his coat with an audible flick, shooting Lestrade a deathly glance, but not spewing flowery language at anyone, or even saying anything. John was left with no choice but to follow, head down, mouth shut, pretending not to be seen or heard by either man in particular, should he find himself in the firing line between the two.

"Sherlock," John called out meekly, as he flung the door open and stepped out into the corridor. The woman from before, who John figured was "Sally", blocked John's way, though, when he went to follow him.

"Please," John was irritated, but also confused and really quite knackered from being so afraid. It wasn't within his moral instinct to use force on a woman, but he wasn't sure this place was somewhere were morals were all that important. "Let me get past."

"I know you're not one of us. You can tell straight off."

"Well, live well in the knowledge that you are right; now if you plea-"

"You're not his friend. He doesn't have friends."

John was, if not a little offput, surprised at this comment. "What do you...?"

His voice trailed off into a breath and he heard the door slam ahead of him, a slight draft running over his face as a solid sign that he had, in fact, been left alone in this... place. Sherlock had really done that to him?

Panic began to rise in his throat. He was alone, positively stranded, in perhaps one of the most dangerous establishments in London at that point in time, with no clue of the whereabouts of his "guide" and a rather pissed-off pimp probably itching for a fight behind the very door that had slammed at his back with the draft. Sally was not letting him last anytime soon, standing with a palm either side of his head on the door, and legs spread apart.

"You think he's dead intelligent and mysterious now," she spoke sharply, "And he's got such an interesting character and lifestyle. But it doesn't matter- he is the same as me; he has the lowest job in the country. He's breaking the law by existing, just like everyone here."

John wasn't sure what she was trying to get at now. Her tone had changed. Her pitch dropped as she continued; "I've seen others like you, walking into Sherlock's life. It's not safe, he's not perfect, and one way or another, one day, your bound to end up in the exact position he is. And Sherlock Holmes will be the one who has put you there."

A chill ran up John's spine. Of course, there was no proof this wasn't true. And yet, he found himself shaking the comments off and stepping up, even if her words echoed in his ears as he pushed wordlessly past her and she stared him down the corridor, simply blinking as he broke into a run for the door and throwing it open, gasping in the clean, cold air, greatful of the bite it gave to the back of his throat, and the cool sensation of the hot droplets culminating in his eyes, and spilling down one flushed cheek in glistening trails.

And yet, there he was. The infamous Sherlock Holmes, stood, shivering, at the gate, waiting for him.


	12. Milk

Sherlock had suddenly become laconic, which contrasted remarkably with the heated discussion from a mere few moments previously. At first, as John descended the front steps, he thought Sherlock was sulking, but as he neared the taller man, the smaller details to his expression imbued... sorrow? Alas, John, when he considered it momentarily, decided that, should he have found himself in Sherlock's exact position, he would have been at a lack of words; or, idiomatically, the proverbial cat would have his tongue.

"So... What now?" He rubbed his hands together, though didn't miss the warmth of the house because of what... situations arose with being inside it. He went to blow onto them, but stopped midway, noting Sherlock's inquisitive expression, and asking instantly, "What?"

"I-I-Is that-t all?" he swallowed, and John frowned.

"What do you mean?" he asked, not being able to help but notice again his own indifference to the cold verbally compared to Sherlock's instantaneous weather-inflicted stammering. Which was definitetly down to his skinniness.

"I-I m-m-mean, I w-wouldn't blame you if you want'd t-to leave me n-now... wait, not in that w-way..." He tried a lopsided smile, but he just looked inexplicably cold, his eyes lacking the glimmer they'd somehow kept before.

"What, you mean I didn't expec- OK, so maybe I wasn't expecting that _exactly_ , but what? Sherlock, I still need a flat, if you're still...?"

"Yes, yes, of c-course," he babbled, not giving time for John to awkwardly extend his pause too much. John nodded hesitantly.

"Sherlock... You weren't... I mean- you're not..." he gave up; "Never mind," John finished somewhat lamely, leaving Sherlock blinking down at him, bemused by John's way with words. He probably could have stood there all day, John's cheeks tinging progressively more salmon with the extension of Sherlock's gaze, had it not have been for the biting wind that swept down the street, making John cringe and Sherlock's jaw tense as he tried to stop his teeth from chattering, flipping the collar of his trench coat up in defense against the harsh elements.

"We c-could g-go back to your flat, if you want," Sherlock suggested, all too easily, but John dissented, no longer able to ignore the nearly painful hunger growling at him from his stomach, pleading, now that the distraction of having his head kicked in by an angry pimp had gone. It was only then that it occured to him that he'd not eaten since the greasy toast the previous day, after having found nothing on his disasterous search of his own kitchen, having gone to bed feeling empty.

"I don't care about that," John said gruffly, "I'm kind of hungry. Is there a newsagents round here at all?"

"Oh!... Um... There's the hi-high street d-down there," Sherlock gestured down the road, in the opposite direction whence they'd came, and John smiled, wasting no time in setting off down the pavement.

"John!" Sherlock strode to catch up. Despite his earlier glacial façade, Sherlock did seem to have acquired quite the range of facial expressions. Perhaps he wasn't as cold as John had first thought.

"What is it, Sherlock?" He didn't mean to sound irritated, but it was the way it came out, and he couldn't be arsed to correct himself.

"I'm s-s-sorry about 'll that- 'bout how Lestrade 'n' Sally t-treated you-" he stopped short of John's annoyed glare.

"You have no reason to apologise for the behaviour of your... _collegues_ , Sherlock," John decided to put it delicately, "What you do owe me is an apology for dragging me somewhere really quite dangerous without even bothering to tell me the whole story!"

"John, I-"

"It's too late- I'm not a tool, Sherlock-"

"If a-anyone's a tool, I am," he muttered, but John ignored him.

"You made me watch Molly for you yesterday without even telling me what was going on with her..."

"Did you ask?" Sherlock quizzed. John had no answer to that, but it was clear that he wasn't getting through to Sherlock, and so stamped off ahead.

Unfortunately, the gangly-legged rent boy was hot on his tail, his coat trailing elegantly at his legs as he huddled about his pinched cheeks and collar.

"A-Alright, John, 'm-m sorry, about that too," he implored, but John needed to fume for a while, keeping up a wicked pace until the end of the street, by which time he'd accepted the fact that it was impossible to out-walk Sherlock Holmes.

He felt the tension in his shoulders release slightly as they turned the corner onto a road, loosing sight of Sherlock's "workplace" and coming out near a few open-windowed shops, mostly closed up, offering such services as hairdressing and dry-cleaning. Sherlock looked as if he didn't know what a hairdressers looked like, though annoyingly, the matted brown curls seemed to suit him, framing his lean face perfectly. Paranoid, John ran his fingers through his own hair- flaxen, if not, admittedly, a bit grey round the edges, and cut relatively short, though it had grown out a bit since he'd returned- well, been dismissed- from his tour of duty.

It was beginning to spit.

"I'm still mad about you for this morning and yesterday too, y'know," John pointed out, though not particularly forcibly. He couldn't stay mad, especially when Sherlock's lips appeared to have gone an unhealthy bluish-purple.

"Which p-part of yesterday?"

John paused in consideration.

"You kissing me," John frowned, retaining the "without my consent" lest he sound pettish.

"I said- 't w's n-necessary. No s-sentiment involved, don' worry."

" _Necessary_? It was... Sherlock, dammit... And..." John caught himself before mentioning the importance sentiment held; firstly, because grown men didn't talk about feelings unless they were hammered, even then being the one maimed with drunken put-downs; secondly, it would have been insensitive for John to talk about sentiment when the man's job was based on not possessing it.

"OK, not _n-necessary_... Requi...site. It could have en-enabled us to-"

" _Could have_ , Sherlock, emphasis on the _could_ ," John snapped.

"Had you n-not have yelled," Sherlock snapped. The effect was ruined with the stammering.

"Yeah, god, imagine why I yelled-"

"D-Do you want me to do it again?" Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised, stopping in his tracks. John's heart skipped a beat as his head became a purling whirlwind of thoughts, until, of course, he figured, though impassive, Sherlock was actually joking, and hated himself more than he should have.

"Fuck off," John said darkly, storming ahead again. This time, Sherlock didn't run to catch up, but left John to his silence for a while, allowing him to frustratedly mull the past day and a half over and over in his head.

Sherlock was a queer chap, to say the least. In the reflection of the glass shop windows on his left, John could see him stalking along, stupidly tall and strangely out of place just about everywhere, even on the cigarette-butt-jewelled street. He was the kind of person you'd sit opposite on the tube, then spend all day thinking about despite their lack of any interesting action in your presence.

You couldn't tell what he did, either, unlike Molly and Sally with their kohl rimmed eyes and long hair. He had holes in his socks, John had noticed, and his clothes were relatively worn, but because it was a shirt and trousers he wore, it was hard to place him with any kind of social standing from the outside. However, he had none of the stereotypical masterful swagger or anything that was so commonly associated with male whores.

Was it politically correct to call Sherlock a whore?

John decided he wouldn't use that particular word aloud; because, even though he would make out that he didn't give a toss, John could see that, at least to him, Sherlock was slightly ashamed of his profession.

John, too, knew that the last thing Sherlock needed to worry about was John's opinion of him. After all, if everything Sherlock had said about Molly and Sebastian was true... What did Sebastian want? Surely, by having sex with Sherlock and Molly, he'd acquired what he required. John, skimming thinking about the intimate details of that previous thought, skipped forward in his thoughts, when, in the physical world, he changed direction, seeing the sudden busy high street, which was conviniently dominated with a Marks and Spencer. Sherlock, he pondered, had explicitly made it clear that Sebastian was a spy. Spies worked for someone, surely? What, not MI6? And they'd have to want to know something about Sherlock or Molly, or even Lestrade, he thought (as he had no doubt Lestrade would have enemies). What could be important about that...?

John's thoughts were cut short as he stepped into the department store, and was blasted from overhead with a vent of warm air. Immediately, he stopped in his tracks, in order to enjoy the sensation of comfortably temperate atmospheric flow though his slightly fluffy hair, hands letting go of his bomber jacket, and smiling smally at the reflection of himself in the glass opposite.

Suddenly, Sherlock was beside him in the reflection, and John looked up to check the illusion, stifling a giggle as Sherlock failed to hold back a contented sigh, hair blowing softly. Sherlock ignored him. The pensioner behind Sherlock also ignored Sherlock, as she grumbled in and ran straight into the back of him, still not stopping as he leapt less than elegantly to John's other side, pouting as John snorted with laughter.

"What do you eat?" John asked casually as they made their way to the foodhall. Sherlock shrugged sulkily, but picked up a basket and looped it into his arm.

"Nothing in particular."

"Are you still ill?"

"Ill?"

"From yesterday evening."

Sherlock shrugged again, this time avoiding John's concerned gaze. John picked up two pints of milk, and Sherlock followed suite, taking a furthur four pints- two in each hand.

"Are you a cat, Sherlock?"

"Most cats are allergic to cows' milk," he replied stiffly, before adding, "Red Bull is better for cats."

John blinked blankly. "Red Bull?"

"It has Taurine in it, which cats go blind without. Molly likes cats," he said simply.

"How on earth do you know that?" John asked, too astounded by Sherlock's spontaneous display of intelligible trivia to move from the refrigerator. Once again, Sherlock shrugged. "Did you want to be a vet or something?"

"A vet?" Sherlock stiffened. "Just about anything is better than this job."

"Did you?" John persevered meekly. "Please...?

"I never had dreams like that- or if I did, I don't remember them. Mycroft..."

"Surely something?" John was barely audible. He didn't even know why he was trying with this impossible, impossible man- he'd had flatmates in uni who he'd only grunt at once in a while if they had cereal at the same time, and yet, here he was, seemingly desperate to get something trivial out of Sherlock; a man all too familiar with the mean streets of London.

"I've never really thought about it," Sherlock said, John languidly highlighting this as a lie, but letting it fly over his head all the same, up through the aisles and away over the heads of grannies and snotty little children.

It was then that a little truth tapped John on the shoulder, and whispered his own secret into his ear, John blushing deeply at the realisation, bending over for a pack of cheese, hoping Sherlock wasn't watching. He hated himself for watching his own movements too closely, and became momentarily awkward; knocking mums with his elbows and dropping a vine of tomatoes from the vegetable box. Cursing, he couldn't help but feel his neck burn. Sherlock wasn't stupid, and noticed John's change in behaviour instantly.

"John, do _you_ feel ill?" Sherlock didn't sound overly concerned. John shook his head in straight denial, and the taller man fell silent again, casually observing John picking up bits and bobs.

"Do you only drink milk, then?" John asked, after a while had passed in silence, and they perused the bread aisle disinterestedly.

"I get food bought for me if I'm out with a richer client, so I don't really buy food otherwise."

"Really? I can cook, well..."

"I shan't eat your cooking."

John felt a twinge of hurt. If anything, he was more focused now on the idea of feeding the man up a bit, with a good stab at his personal cuisine, whether Sherlock liked it or not.

"Fine..." John finished his sentence with a high intonation, and was looking past Sherlock with a sort of glimmer in his eyes. At first, Sherlock turned around to see who it was John was looking at, but, as John wandered away, out of the foodhall and into the clothing aisles, Sherlock realised that he may not have been looking at someone, but something.

John was wearing a matter-of-factly, if not pink-hued expression, as he held out something soft and in a deep, Oxford blue to Sherlock.

A scarf.


	13. The Stupidity of Sentiment

Sherlock was abashed in his new scarf. He certainly looked a great deal comfier as they stood on the platform of the underground, while people around him shivered. It had also done wonders for the stuttering- though, John had to admit defeat when it came to the rain that had made Sherlock's before bouncy locks droop dismally, therefore causing some of his cynical stares to lack their usual contempt, and Sherlock's watery cerulean eyes to simply meet John's dull green ones from behind a few limp, damp strands of brown hair. His skin was still deathly pale too, his nose now sporting a pinkish tinge, but John decided not to tease him about any of it once he caught brief sight of himself on the escalator down fron the street. Needless to say, his bomber jacket had no hood, and he looked possibly more worse for wear than Sherlock; and so quickly averted his gaze from the poignant reflection of a man bearing an uncanny resemblance to a drowned rat, instead focusing on the posters for West End musicals adorning the wall all the way down.

The was a rush of wind, and a faint roaring sound, before pinpricks of scarlet light appeared around the corner if the tunnel. John looked expectantly to Sherlock, and found himself startled by the arrival of not only the train but a woman, about the same height as John, wearing a jovial smile and fuschia pink coat that were completely out of sync with the rest of the platform's mood.

"Sherlock," she recognised breathlessly, stepping into his close quarters as businessmen behind her bustled for the edge of the platform, where the rushing blur of yellow and white was slowing to become individual windows, each crowded with people; like sardines in a tin, John often thought.

"Ms. Wilson," Sherlock smiled as the train creaked to a halt, and there was a hiss as the double doors opened. There was a general kerfuffle then about them, and John moved closer to the evidently aquainted pair.

The smile Sherlock was wearing was strange- it made him look completely different. Since John had met Sherlock, a long time though it seemed, had only been yesterday, John had seen Sherlock's grin as an intelligible, knowing affair, often playful and a bit wicked-looking, in a completely harmless way. However now, the curves of his expression had become smoother, one side of his lips cocked higher than the other and his eyes glazed, giving no longer a simple look but a lustful gaze, eyelids drooping lower than usual as he looked down at this new woman.

"Pur- _lease_ ," she purred, "Jeni will be fine."

"Jeni," he savoured the taste of her name on his lips. John pretended not to watch as he licked them salaciously; which is essentially when it hit him, as he looked at the looks shot between the two, the ever closening proximity between them on the emptying platform... This was Sherlock Holmes, _whoring himself out_.

It fell like a rock in John's stomach, and he stepped back as the woman in the pink coat stepped in.

Before he knew what was going on, Jeni had a manicured hand smoothing down Sherlock's scarf onto his chest.

"The scarf suits you." She paused, a nervous look flashing across her face, as if thinking about what she was doing critically, but Sherlock didn't let it get to the stage where her eyes would dart around her fellow platformers, instead taking a surprising lead and cupping her jaw in his hand, and leaning in to kiss her; ever so soft and gentle with each movement he made.

Even when she broke it off, he kept his composure and charm.

She passed something into his hand. "I need to talk to you for a minute." Sherlock opened his mouth to ask her where it was she'd like to go, but she added frenetically, "No, no, I... Erm... Just... Let's be quick, shall we? Naughty..."

Sherlock was taking her racy and audacious request in his stride, it seemed, whispering something seductive in her ear so she giggled in a rather vulgar manner, wantonly reaching her hands about beneath Sherlock's rain-jewelled-coat. He wasn't hesitating. He wasn't protesting to any of her decadent lunges, nor dictating, but was effortless and natural.

John was only listening by this point, staring vacantly at the huge poster for toothpaste on the opposite side of the tunnel, but that didn't stop him from flushing crimson. Was this _normal_?

He turned on his heel, looking to protest, to find that Sherlock, along with Jeni, had disappeared completely from sight, leaving only a few carrier bags of food in his place.

John looked about, dumbfounded. His mouth hung open a bit as the realisation of his inevitable next move dawned on him: people were staring at him as the doors to the underground closed and the train sped off, each carriage once again becoming blurred with the next. John, despairing, put a hand to his forehead.

Sherlock, really had, gone. To do...

John shook his head, and picked up all the bags, making his way through the stream of people already coming down onto the platform, towards the empty sandwich shop, glowing in the dank dark. Either no one wanted to stop on their late lunchtime travels for "Freshly made sandwiches" in flimsy plastic cartons, or the emptiness of the shop was a reflection of the shoddy state of affairs. John, of course, had no other choice- reluctant to go out of the station (a picture of himself struggling up the stairs with one too many grocery bags flashed through his mind) and with no alternative; not even a WHSmith.

Alas, he was famished, and so pushed open the door with his shoulder, raising his eyebrows in greeting to the two heavily made-up assistants, and put the bags down at an empty table (any of them) before making his way to the counter.

"What can I get you please, sir?" asked one of the girls. John hesitated- not that he knew why. He jabbed a finger meekly at the sandwich that looked as if it had been prepared in the last few months, of which there was only one, and considered a cup of tea, before spying the thin film of grease coating the kettle and opting for a bottle of lemonade, which wasn't something he normally had, but liked anyhow.

"Is that all?" she asked, rehearsed, and when he nodded, (lacking altogether his will to speak), she added, "Four pounds seventy five then, please."

A good old rip-off.

However, whether out of politeness, fatigue or that he pitied the girls, who both couldn't have been much older than sixteen, John paid, with nothing more than a small "Thank you".

Which then gave John nothing better to do than wait.

And wait he did- slowly eating away at his sandwich and watching out of the dirty window as the platform filled and emptied; filled and emptied, over and over in a matter of minutes. Many different kinds of people passed the window, but not one if them noticed him- not that he minded, he was used to going unnoticed everywhere, unlike Sherlock. John looked normal, he acted normal, and he didn't know anyone really- whereas whithersoever Sherlock went, he wall tall, mysterious and strikingly handsome; he walked with long, classily confident strides (he never swaggered like Lestrade) and often ran to hail a taxi or catch a bus; and it seemed to John that he knew every second person.

Even sat there, for fifteen minutes, John kind of missed him, and felt a hole where Sherlock had been stood, pouting, talking, climbing over fences, and generally violating John's rights.

Of course, this was Sherlock, and fifteen minutes stretched longer. The girls had Radio One blaring in the backroom, and every now and again they'd be dancing as they did odd jobs like mopping the floor. John would have quite liked the station to have changed to Radio Four so he could catch the afternoon news, and although the girls probably would have switched it without questioning, John would have felt as if he were ruining their fun.

Again, _The Sun_ was on the next table, but he didn't read the trashy tabloids, particularly not _The Sun_ , purely on principal.

It occurred to him then that he was getting old, and he managed to waste the following twenty two minutes pondering this epiphany, before concluding that, like many things, he would become as he thought; power of the mind and all that. Or basically a chance to avoid thinking about his age or steadily greying (but pleasingly not receding) hair.

Half an hour.

He tapped his foot in a rhythm.

He tried to predict when the next train would arrive.

He stacked up all the disposable milks into a little tower, thinking about what Sherlock had said about Taurine and cats and Molly, until the stack rather embarrassingly fell over.

But then, just as John was sighing and putting the milk tubs back into their queer little pot, Sherlock walked in, and sat down heavily without saying a word.

John blinked in surprise.

He finished with the milks, before retracting his hands to the edge of the table and clasping his own fingers defensively.

Sherlock was... ruffled. His hair was a mess, probably from having fingers run through it incessantly in the past forty-five minutes, and the post-coital glow tickling his cheekbones was so stupidly obvious, he was surprised that the girls on the counter hadn't exploded into the typically teenagerish fit of giggles.

Nevermind non-existent giggling; there was a not entirely different pealing in his ears instead, and he gripped his hands so tightly his knuckles went a white-ish colour, the creases snaking across the joint in a vivid rose pink.

He had no idea how Sherlock expected him to react.

"Is that it?" John muttered. He sounded spiteful and... jealous. _Fuck_.

Opposite him, Sherlock's face dropped; going from the quietly content, vaguely dreamy, to a weary, more distressed frown; closing his eyes remorsefully.

"It doesn't normally happen like that." Was that supposed to be reassurance, John asked himself. It sounded like it.

"Go on then, how does it _normally_ happen then?"

"Why would you want to know?" Sherlock snapped, baring his teeth. "I'm saying that normally it's longer, and doesn't happen in a toilet, but you wouldn't know what it's like," he glared at John, "To need the money."

"Oh really? You really think an army pension is that great?"

"I wouldn't know, I've been a prostitute since I left school," Sherlock came back, though what he'd just admitted to didn't register on his face. Not a flicker of shame or a shadow of sorrow. John could just see anger; seething anger. Did Sherlock even know what he was saying?

"Why do you think I'm looking for a flatshare?" John tried to calm his voice, using reasoning to bring Sherlock back down to the ground; as, for some reason, all of a sudden, John could see a fire in Sherlock's eyes that he'd not seen before.

The girls from the counter had disappeared.

"Mycroft offered you money to spy on me. Why not take that? Don't fancy dirtying your hands with me?"

"No, I just want nothing to do with Mycrof-"

"Mycroft is a _dealer_ , I'm a _whore_ , so tell me: what the fuck do you want with either of us?!" He stood up, rattling the table violently, and John could help but notice that Sherlock had missed a button to his shirt, and John could see his chest. He remained level-headed, used to being so in violent situations. If only he'd taken this stance earlier on in the conversation, he could have avoided riling Sherlock up.

Sherlock lunged over the table, knocking things onto the floor as he collared John, much to John's surprise. His heart leapt into his mouth, blood rushing in his ears.

Why was Sherlock being like this?

_"What do you want with me?"_

"Sherlock... Please, you're hurting me..."

" _What do you want with me?!_ " he hissed again. His words echoed in John's ears, and he clenched his eyes shut.

"I... I love you."

_Shit._

Clearly, something in John was working against him.

Why had he gone and said that?

He wasn't even gay...

Well, he'd had a few crushes in the army, but of course that wasn't _love_ , that was just... respect?

Plus, how could he love Sherlock, he'd only met him the night before...

 _Shit._ He did though. He did love Sherlock: he wasn't stupid, he wouldn't say something he didn't mean. He'd realised in the supermarket that he was head-over-heels for the man, and Sherlock...

His body disagreed with him furthur.

He knew he couldn't stand that Sherlock's before tight grip had loosened from his jacket, or the dropping of that fire from his eyes; his wide, slightly disgusted eyes.

Of course, he _wanted_ Sherlock to calm down, but not this way- this was because John had arbitrarily blurted out those three positively idiotic words, and Sherlock had taken them seriously. John wanted to stop all that; shut up all the little messages Sherlock was giving with all the involuntary movements he was making. He could have laughed it off. Of course. Naturally, that would have been the course of action, had his body not utterly betrayed him, and he reached his hands up the same way he'd seen Sherlock demonstrate less than an hour ago, and stole a single kiss from him: short, soft, in that random little café with the noise of a train pulling into stop filling their minds.

As soon as John realised what he was doing, he both hated himself and declared the moment one of perfection.

As soon as Sherlock realised what John was doing, on the other hand, he broke it off. He didn't know what he was thinking. He couldn't function. His brain had stopped dead- a rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming train, a moment suspended in time inside a businessman's watch.

Both Sherlock and John were silent.


	14. In Which John Is Pensive

John hated himself.

He hated himself.

Look what he'd done; throwing himself on his flatmate like a superior filmstar looking for a shag, when Sherlock was quite obviously in a vulnerable place.

As he quietly turned an interesting shade of cerise, he dared look up at the other man.

Sherlock hated himself too. He may have been regarding John magnanimously, but that didn't impede any of the guilt John felt for putting Sherlock in such a position. Firstly, Sherlock had told John how his professional pansexuality and his casual asexuality were two seperate things- but he'd never mentioned which way he leant outside of work.

Which, in simple terms, meant John felt nothing short of the prize idiot. Part of him wished Sherlock would become angry again- that way, John could feel repentant, rather than battling both desire and guilt within, and also, it would have meant Sherlock would still be his confident self, rather than this subdued, lost man sat in front of him.

"I... Sherlock, forget it..." he began. It pained him to say it really, because he'd not kissed anyone since he left Afghanistan, and Sherlock's almost feminine lips had made him go all tingly and excited, little fireworks shooting around in the pit of his stomach. Plus, whereas before, when he could comfortably ignore any hints of sentiment, becoming momentarily intimate had pushed any of his doubts away and replaced it with a sort of forbidden ardour.

"I'm sorry I got angry," Sherlock said stiffly, standing up straight. John hesitated. "I-it's just..." he gritted his teeth, and John, picking up on the falter in his speech, interrupted.

"Shame?" he asked quietly, and for a moment, Sherlock regarded him frankly, making John gulp as he panicked internally- _had he crossed the line again?_ \- before he averted his gaze and nodded, just the once.

And yet, he didn't give John the chance to root for more, as he grinned craftily, looking about the shop, and, all of a sudden back to his normal self, said, "This place looks like it's not been cleaned for a decade." He ran a finger along the table and abhored the golden grime that came away onto the pad of his finger.

John didn't answer. He was slightly confused with the situation, but went with it- asking Sherlock if he wanted anything to eat. He declined brusquely; an action John could have only wished he'd made over John's... miscalculation: something that could have saved them both a seemingly endless inner turmoil.

\-------------------------------

From then, John didn't speak. Not for the best part of the day, anyway- but then, neither really did Sherlock. They caught the tube to Baker Street in relative silence- though not a heavy, sulky atmosphere, merely through lack of speech because both men were thinking. Not just about what had just occured between them, either; as John turned his mind over, stewing his thoughts and emotions over, he found himself thinking about Sherlock's clients.

For one, it struck him when that Jennifer girl was conversing- or rather, dealing- with Sherlock, that John could have passed her in the street- hell, he could have known her well for years- but never would he have guessed that she hired men for a shag in a pay-loo. Naturally, of course, that wasn't the sort of thing one shouted about, yet...

John looked about the carriage, eyes darting about, trying to work out if any of the people surrounding him could be deduced in such a manner. No, was the answer- it wasn't as if they wore a flashing badge.

Sherlock whipped his phone out of his pocket, and began texting. The phone looked out of the price range of a man who could barely afford to feed himself, but John daren't ask.

So what, John wanted to know, lead people to hire Sherlock? It seemed a simple enough question with an equally basic answer: sex.

And yet, from what John had seen, the underworld of prostitution was nothing like it was portrayed in the media, as was so often the case. Sherlock didn't strut up and down the street, he didn't lean seductively into cars, nor come under the wing of a mega-wealthy greying man living in a penthouse appartment. Then again, that was women- Sherlock, although catering to both sexes, was male, and therefore didn't fit the trite "slut" cliché.

Some women, and men, he guessed, just wanted sex. But Jennifer didn't seem the overly-charged female- she was particularly racy, but from what John had seen, Sherlock was tender- almost loving- with her, even despite his surreptitious reluctance at being so easy. A failed marriage, maybe? John didn't check to see if she was wearing a ring. Perhaps, Sherlock was seen as an offer of human contact, along with consolation sex and... pity? No. Not pity: attention. Paying for Sherlock's time meant someone was focusing on pleasuring them and _only_ them, which, in a heartless city full of strangers, rain and lights, was probably the most they got.

John's eye flinched. He thought deeper, letting the steady clackety-clack, clackety-clack of the track fade away and become white noise, and for the strangers around him to become faceless, so that all he noticed was a negative-space reflection of himself on the black window opposite. He allowed himself to stare soul-searchingly into his own eyes, looking for the decisive answer.

Escapism? An evening, night, or even an hour, to experience some love or fantasy the tame could only grab at in their dreams. The humidity, the soft touch of skin upon skin, and the faintest tone of sweat and cologne as he traced the small of their back up to their nape... Or, a wild scream muffled by handfuls of duvet, a playful bite to damp, sweet skin and the childish frolicking and pillow fighting. Something to cling to at a long, arduous day at the office, perhaps, in Jennifer's case.

John wasn't one for sex in particular- he never really understood the point of pornography, for example; he considered it pining for something that didn't exist, like those women in magazines who had been airbrushed out of their normal human shape. He had no idea if prostitutes fell into that category either, but he winced at some of the thoughts that seemed to have arrived with his newly-admitted... bisexuality.

Oh _god_ , he thought, so many _words_.

He found his muscles stiffening uncomfortably as someone sat the other side of Sherlock, who in turn, found his dislike for strangers and shuffled toward John. Gradually, John felt the heat rising into his face, too aware of the way Sherlock's leg felt against his own, and how even in close proximity his face looked like fine porcelain: until finally, he could stand it no more, and, exhaling loudly, he leapt to his feet. All in good time, though, he saw, as Sherlock too stood, gathering one more than his share of M&S bags and stepping out into Baker Street Station. All of five minutes furthur up the A40, John thought, quite relieved, and chuckled privately, and thought of his cane.

And so, contrary to his experience with Mr Holmes thus far, John found himself spending the afternoon in relative bliss, moving his measly few belongings from his old flat into the spacier 221B, where Sherlock, upon his return, was playing a lovely yet haunting melody on the violin. He put it aside without hesitation when it dawned on him that he wasn't alone in the room, and proceeded with insisting on helping John unpack, even though boxes of his roughly packed possessions still littered the hallway and the stairs.

John wondered if he felt guilty, in an obscure, twisted way. if he did, it didn't stop him snarking every now and again about an item of John's.

He wondered if Molly would return that evening, so he could talk to her.

She didn't.

In fact, before John knew it, he'd slipped into a routine. The first two nights, John waited up for Sherlock, but when he didn't return until mid-morning on the third, he gave up on the idea. He got used to it as much as he could- he could never stow his guilt or anger to what Sherlock subjected himself to with his work, but, for what was probably the first time in the distastefully skinny man's life, John kept the fridge fully-stocked, and cooked a bit for him too, which he appreciated... in his own way.

John, also, didn't press anymore questions about his profession. He needn't. He just needed to observe.

There were nights when Sherlock came in looking much the same as when he left a mere few hours earlier but without his tie, when a rich woman, or, apparently, a stockbroker, had treated him to a meal and paid him heftily for his services afterwards.

There were nights when he'd have to go more than once, and John could smell all the different perfumes on him, or the alcohol, or both.

Times when John would see the anger in him like after Jennifer: where he'd stomp around and yell at Mrs Hudson if she dared question him, then he'd go silent for a while in his bedroom before coming out a silently, wearily make John and Mrs Hudson cups of tea before he retired to bed.

The worst came when Sherlock slammed through the door at 7am on a Saturday and wordlessly slipped into the shower. His melancholy felt worse than his anger- it carried an atmosphere. John ran into him (flushing like a girl) on the stairwell, he couldn't have helped but notice the blossoming bruises on his torso and thighs, shaped like flabby little hands, possibly from being wedged helplessly underneath a demanding, buxom man for longer than he would've wanted.

Other than that, Sherlock drank inhuman amounts of milk, always leaving the carton or bottle on the side, and John got progressively bored, ignoring any feelings for his flatmate and supressing himself with torturous amounts of _Jeremy Kyle_ and _Location, Location, Location_.

Until one afternoon, that was, just under a week after John moved in, and Sherlock came with an almighty bang! through the front door, up the stairs and into the room where John was staring at the blank page of his blog, when he said deeply, "News."

John, cautious but enthralled, flicked the television on.

_"...Where police are investigating the death of a woman, who has been named as journalist Jennifer Wilson. It is unknown how Ms Wilson died, but she is believed to have been dead a few days before being discovered by a group of youths in Laureston Gardens late last night..."_

John blinked thrice, and turned expectantly to Sherlock, who was just staring, wide-eyed and daunted, at the screen.


	15. Fraternal

"Sherlock."

John's voice was steady, even though inside, he was quaking. The emptiness in Sherlock's eyes was eerie and unnerving- such vacancy was only normally associated with the dead. John, unable to stand the background noise, flicked the television off via the remote, and, purposefully setting it down on the arm of his chair, looked up again at Sherlock, expectant.

"What..." Sherlock asked wearily, exhaling and drawing a palm momentarily over his face, as if just the simple act of answering John was soporific.

"You know _what_ , Sherlock," John said through gritted teeth. "I saw your face. Jennifer Wilson-"

"How many people in London are called Jennifer Wilson?! It's a common nam-"

"Oh no," John interrupted, getting to his feet.

Sherlock stepped back. He had the look of a guilty child in his eyes- it was so blantantly obvious what Sherlock was thinking sometimes that John found it difficult to remind himself that Sherlock was wholly capable of becoming impassive and glacial at the flick of a switch for clients.

Sherlock had even gone as far as to hold a hand up loosely in front of himself, as if expecting physical attack.

"Don't try to play innocent on me. What do you know?"

"I..."

He went silent, frowning at the ground as he dropped his stance.

John's phone buzzed his pocket, and he didn't remove the scowl from his face as he retrieved it.

**Still think you can keep him from trouble? MH**

"You forget, John- Sherlock has the most intimate details about his clients," came a voice from the doorway of the room. Sherlock recognised the voice, spinning wildly round on his heel to confront his sudden guest.

"Why are you here?" he asked coldly. Mycroft shrugged, watching John rise from his chair and move to Sherlock's side out of the corner of his eye.

"The door was open," he gestured behind him, "And so I thought I'd... _pop in_."

"You can't just pop in," Sherlock argued, clenching his fists so tightly that John noticed his knuckles turn a snowy white, and his fingernails dig painfully into his palms; though his voice, strangely enough, remained placid, as if he were trying hard to hide the wrath he'd directed towards his brother.

"Mycroft," John found himself stepping in between the pair. It was a dangerous place to be, no doubt- death glares bored into either side of his face, and his fingers went clammy. "I've told you," he carried on, "I'm not minding Sherlock for you: so why should any trouble now be any of your business?!"

"Fraternal sentiment?"

"Oh, shut up Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, his words lathered in disgust and loathing as he hurled them at Mycroft, who flinched.

The atmosphere was thick and uncomfortable- John shuffled from foot to foot in an attempt to keep the room from descending into a stiff silence, wishing he knew what it was he was missing from this encounter. Both men seemed to be preoccupied with their unrelenting hatred for each other, and it was no use getting either one to leave, as John knew that Mycroft was a busy man, from how Sherlock had mentioned his fleeting visits, and so it lead John to believe that Mycroft had some information that could be of use to John and Sherlock.

Unless that wasn't the case, and Mycroft had just come to bathe in their unhappiness.

In which case, John vowed to punch him.

"A-Aside that," John's voice wavered, "Mycroft, you wouldn't... I mean... Jennifer Wilson?"

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the sofa, sulking.

"Why else would I be here?"

"Busy man," Sherlock added bitterly, and Mycroft looked down his nose at him, almost tutting. Sherlock didn't look up- he just stared vacantly at the window, eyebrows furrowed.

"Show me your arms, Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly. John blinked, but didn't have time to react as Sherlock sprang up from his seat and advanced towards Mycroft, a cold fury blazing in his eyes.

"How dare you," he growled, hovering less than an inch from Mycroft's hooked nose. "I'm clean. _Just like you_ ," he said, but their was a stange undertone to his voice, and John wasn't sure if the last part was sarcastic or highlighting something else. Either way, he stood stock still, waiting for Mycroft to make his defence, which he took a few seconds to do.

"Show me."

John watched silently as Sherlock undid the button on the wrist of his shirt, which today was a velvety purple, and pulled it up, to reveal a pale and initially mark-free forearm.

It was only when John looked closer, squinting at Sherlock's skin, that he saw the tell-tale white pinprick scars studding his arm, and he sucked in a breath of air.

_Sherlock did drugs?_

Everything was moving so fast- too fast for John.

He needed to sit down. He moved quickly back to the sofa, and put his face in his hands, not wanting to see the looks exchanged between the two brothers.

"Jennifer Wilson, Sherlock," Mycroft said softly, "I hardly need to tell you that it's got everything to do with you. Not, of course, that it's your fault- it's not. After what happened to Molly-"

"How do you know about that?" Sherlock interrupted, defensive all of a sudden, and what Molly had said flashed through John's mind; "paternal". He took his head from his hands and looked up at the two men: Sherlock's body language screamed that of restraint, and John couldn't help but wonder- he was obviously capable of holding a family-like role, as he did when protecting Molly- so why didn't he and Mycroft get along?

"You forget," Mycroft sneered, "I have men everywhere. Did Molly not tell you that someone came to her aid?"

"You..."

"I make sure my people know who's on their side, Sherlock. I hope I don't break you little world when I say I'm not always the bad guy," he said quietly.

Neither John nor Sherlock had anything to say to that, both of their mouths locked shut in surprise, so Mycroft continued; "As I was saying, it's not your fault, but it's pretty likely it has something to do with you, given that they reckon Ms Wilson had no other reasons to be murdered- though it's impossible to know, I have a brilliant ex-officer who could probably sniff out any links, but her home is infested with Scotland Yard."

"You're... You're being quite vague about this, Mycroft. Sherlock and I have suspicions too, but it doesn't mean we have to go and act on them-"

"I can't tell you what I know," Mycroft said sharply. "I protect my own too. What I can tell you is that starting by confronting with the culprit of the last crime," he said "crime" as if it were a laughable word, "That could be associated with you- for example, Molly Hooper's assault, may lead you somewhere."

There was a pause.

"Is that it?" Sherlock's body shook slightly, as he rasped the question at his brother, "Is that all? You've come to gloat about how you've got information that could help Molly and John and I... But you keep it from me to protect your stupid business and your dealers?!" John's jaw locked in anger, as Sherlock made a move towards Mycroft.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Mycroft said sharply- the tone John heard him use in the car with him the night before; clipped, warning, with the unknown danger of a shark in a pool of black fluid. Sherlock stopped as he heard a click in the hallway, and John looked round to see, yet again, the glint of a barrel, to which Sherlock surrendered his violence.

"Oh and look, bodyguards in my flat. Great, Mycroft. Tell you what. Give me a break, pretending you give a shit about me. It's the same as ever. Get out of my... our flat," his voice quivered with rage.

Mycroft, forever one to perilously overstay his welcome, was still for a second or two, before his familiar eyes darted over the shoulder of Sherlock's jacket to John, who looked weary, half sat, half sliding from the couch, trying to work out if he should make a move on either of the men. They caught each other's eye; but only for an instant, as no sooner had Mycroft made contact, did he break it again, turning without a word and clunking down the stairs, another set of footsteps in tow, leaving John feeling very much as if his soul had been read.

However, as soon as they heard the door go, and the ignition fire in the car outside the window and heard it cruise off, John relaxed, leaning his head back into the cushion on the seat and giving a long, deep sigh.

"You alright?" he muttered, and Sherlock turned around, wearing a blank expression, as if he'd forgotten where he was.

"Yeah, fine, why wouldn't I be?" he sniffed.

"You and Mycroft... What's that about?"

"...We don't get on," Sherlock snorted softly. John chuckled in response, but it was empty and dry.

"Since when?"

"Since forever, mostly. For as long as I can remember, though... Something happened a while ago. It's a long story," he shrugged it off. "Never trust a drug dealer, John," he said, and although he winked with this statement, his smile was sad, and the words felt as if they had a double meaning.

John would have lost himself in silent thought then, wallowing in the semi-darkness of the flat and pondering the events of the morning, had Sherlock not have clapped his hands together and made him start again.

"Lestrade can't help us..."

"Lestrade won't help us," John corrected.

"So we go back, talk with Sebastian's boss."

"Isn't that what Mycroft said? Should we trus-"

"Although one should never trust a drug dealer, that was my idea before he mentioned it," Sherlock pouted, "As it is the only logical course of action. We can't do anything offensive, because we don't know whoever murdered her is after me, and we don't know who's behind it, so we retrace our steps to chat with the last offender. 'Cept it's unlikely Sebastian will talk to me now."

"Are... Are we sure this is the right Jennifer Wilson?" John mumbled as Sherlock shrugged on his coat and looped the scarf John had given him around his neck, before throwing John's bomber jacket to him, without questioning whether he was up to visit what John rightfully assumed to be another brothel.

"I said it; how many people in London are called Jennifer Wilson? Two. I had to look her up in the phonebook once; long-time client. Well, that and... Mycroft..." he trailed off, running to the window and glancing out. "Are you ready, John?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Not that John gave one.

John didn't have to be part of Sherlock's dangerous world; questioning pimps and the rest of their web and tracking down murderers. Sally's warning rang in his ears, but he ignored it. He didn't have to do anything with Sherlock. He didn't even have to live in 221B.

He'd resigned himself to it.

Partially because he was quite in love with the man.

But mostly because, despite it all, Sherlock was right- he longed for the rush, and that rush came when he was tracking Sherlock's heels as he clomped down the stairs and skidded towards the front door.

"Where are you boys going in such a hurry?" came Ms Hudson's cry, "You'll break the stairs if you keep stomping up and down them like that, you know!"

"Sorry, Ms Hudson!" John apologised, but he wasn't sure if she heard- as, yet again, he found himself running down Baker Street, after a man who claimed he wasn't a detective, had somehow involved himself in a case anyhow.


	16. In Vino Veritas

John had the unmistakable heavy weight of dread settling in the bottom of his stomach, and he didn't like it.

He never would have recognised the side street from the way they went in. He and Sherlock had taken the tube in a hurry, Sherlock vaulting the gates at Baker Street Station when security wasn't looking, because he apparently didn't have the funds to keep his Oyster card topped up. John had given him a surly look as he waited by the machine on the other side, leaning oh-so-casually against it as he scanned the faces of the oblivious and rather weedy security guard with a smirk.

 _Smarmy bastard_ , John had thought, as he rooted through his pockets for his card, before shoving it inelegantly onto the machine's scanner. There was a flash of red light, and the little shutters failed to open. He wondered why, trying again and again to the same reaction, before seeing the little flashing sign- " _Seek Assistance_ ".

Sherlock hadn't goaded him about it, as John thought he might have been inclined to do. He even waited for John by the gate, before he attracted suspicious stares from those coming through the gate he was guarding, as well as the little security guy.

Hence, when John had come back through, he took a moment to locate the dark figure lounging against the opposite wall in a way that somehow made him invisible. He was on his phone as John walked up to him, but had immediately stowed it as John got his attention, and shot off down the corridor, through the masses and down onto the platform.

\-------------------------------------

It was a dark street, doored by two large green wheelie-bins which weren't there on their last visit a week ago; though Sherlock just slipped past them, so he supposed he wasn't supposed to see it as suspicious or anything. The gutter was littered with mulched plastic bottles and wrappers, and jewelled with nasty looking shards of broken glass, which could have explained some of the stains on the wall.

His heart thumped as they neared the door.

"Are you just going to waltz in there and ask them questions?"

"Me? _Us_ , John."

"What?!" he squeaked. He clenched his cold hands inside his pockets, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot as he gulped at the inevitability of him having to follow Sherlock through that door.

"...You're right," Sherlock said, much to John's surprise, as he took out a packet of cigarettes and plucked one from the line, holding it between his pale lips as he lit it. He then popped the box back in his coat pocket and took a long inhalation of the fumes, before breathing out slowly, watching as the white wisps curled up into the cold air until they completely disappeared.

John couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling.

"What do you mean, _I'm right_?"

"I mean you're right: we can't just waltz in there. I should probably point out that this isn't going to be like last week. It's not a brothel."

"It's... It's not?" John was admittedly, a bit confused. He'd just assumed it had been, from the way Sherlock had talked about it to Lestrade, but evidently not.

_So what was it?_

_Oh god_ , he thought, biting his lip as he met Sherlock's gaze: _it wasn't a drugs den, was it?_

There'd been a casual coke-snorter in his barracks in Afghanistan, and he'd apparently gotten into it as a teenager without even knowing what it was he was doing.

John hoped he knew better than that, but he couldn't say the same for Sherlock, and he'd rather not have to take a stoned friend home with him, especially upon comparison of Sherlock's size to his.

"So...?"

"Similiar, but not the same, there is a difference. Sebastian is an escort, and in there is his agency."

"Agency?" John repeated, in a manner that allowed for him to roll the word around on his tongue, but not that Sherlock felt obliged to explain more.

The hooker continued smoking, flicking ash listlessly onto the dry front step. John watched him, admiring the way he held himself and how intriguing he looked when he was thinking; his blue eyes misty and his expression ever so slightly tense at the brow, as if he was squinting at something in the sunlight.

After a while, he lowered his arm and dropped the smouldering stub on the ground, squashing it with the toe of his shoe.

"Here," he said, flashing a grin, and John was surprised to see him taking his tie off and holding it out to him. "Wear it."

John aquiesced dubiously. Sherlock then took another tie from his TARDIS-like pockets, and hung his scarf over his shoulder so he could fasten it in a double-Windsor. He then did up his blazer, straightened his trousers and did something John suspected was supposed to be neatening to his hair- unfortunately, his corkscrews stayed as unruly as ever, but Sherlock didn't seem to care.

"Put it on," he said to John again, as he shedded his coat and scarf.

"What're you doing?"

"Trying to pass off as an escort, what does it look like?"

"Sebastian wasn't wearing a tie..."

"Oh, come on John. It'll be dark soon, escorts tend to work earlier than we do because they take clients to functions and things, so we'd be out of place if we didn't," he theorised, and so John did up the top button of his striped shirt and put the thin pink tie on, which, he had to admit, suited him. Sherlock then helped him out of his bomber jacket, which he held with his own coat and walked to the end of the alley.

" _Where are you going with my coat?!_ " he hissed, following Sherlock, and then breaking into a run as he saw Sherlock open the lid of the wheelie bin they'd walked past. "Sherlock!"

"Shush, John."

"What are you doing?!" he raged, clasping onto the arm Sherlock had the coats in. Sherlock's eyes flicked to the point of their contact, but simply stated his intention.

"I'm hiding them. Don't worry, these are seldom used, they just stop people walking into this alley by accident- or on purpose, for that matter." And without waiting for agreement, he threw the coats in, and ignored John's protests, steering him back towards the door instead.

"Ready?" Sherlock asked. John felt the need to flatten his hair and straighten his tie before nodding his answer, and allowing Sherlock to open the door quietly.

He followed a dashing-looking, almost gentlemanly Sherlock inside, and found many differences between that and Lestrade's place. The dishevelled outside was rather deceiving- it smelt of fresh paint inside, with clean, white walls either side of them. There was a flight of stairs with a landing in the middle, which Sherlock strolled up, aplomb, but with regard to John's progress behind him as he limped up the stairs. At the top of the stairs was a secure looking door, and John exhaled with relief, glad of a reason to turn around and go back the way they came.

Sherlock, however, wasn't so easily deterred. He shot John a glance that said too much, and tried the handle; easing the unlocked door open without force or fuss. Once again, they slipped through.

This time, John found himself in an equally white, if not darker corridor. There were some blue, waiting-room type seats three-quarters of the way down the corridor, which ended in a door; slightly ajar, with the last of the weak sunlight flooding through into the hall from inside. Everything about the place was remarkably clean, if not disused- for example, despite the fact they were off, the simplistic lighting above their heads was pristine.

Sherlock took it slowly down the corridor- walking softly on his heels, and keeping close to the wall, running his fingers along it as they progressed towards the open door. There were other doors; two, opposite each other on the corridor, but Sherlock ignored them, and John had no other choice but to trust that Sherlock knew what he was doing.

When they neared, John heard something from inside the room. Clinking, shuffling. They'd yet to encounter anyone, so John had relaxed considerably, but now he knew there was someone there... Someone who knew they weren't supposed to be. He felt his heart begin to race, and his palms went so clammy that he had to wipe them quietly on his trousers.

Sherlock poked him.

"Stay here," he mouthed, giving a squeeze to John's arm that sent a frisson up his spine.

And then, without furthur ado, Sherlock strolled into the room, and John moved to stand by the door, invisible from inside the room, hand resting protectively on his army-edition revolver.

"Can I help you?" It was a female voice; cold, and laced with derision.

There was a pause.

" _Oh_." A shrill, harrowing laugh. "Oh no. If it isn't the infamous Mr Holmes."

There was more shuffling, and John grimaced, mind running wild with images of what those sounds could connote; he wanted desperately to move across to the other side of the door, but that could be dangerous- Sherlock wanted him hidden, either for a surprise advantage or back up, and he would be no use if he were discovered.

Not that there wasn't a threat of being discovered anyway. All it took was for someone to come through any of those doors and discover him.

Silently, he tried to peek through the crack between the door and the frame. He couldn't see much to start with, but as he adjusted his perspective, he found that he could see the woman Sherlock was talking to, though not him. She wasn't touching him- she was stood with her hands on her hips, wearing an insidious smile. In many ways, she was a lot like Sherlock: unhealthily thin, keen eyes, the fix of her shoulders expressing a mild confidence mixed with a silent resistance to sentiment. She wore a grey suit, with just a flash of red at her neckline in the form of a lacy camisole- or was it her bra?- peeking out from beneath the material. John wondered if that effect was intended, because he blushed as he realised how drawn his eyes became to the candid detail.

"Not a bad guise, Sherlock, but you reek of hooker. My men have more style, it's not all about clothes."

"I-"

"Look," she drawled, walking out from behind the desk, "Come here." There was a demanding in her voice that even Sherlock couldn't disobey, so he obliged, stepping into John's line of sight.

John's breathing shallowed as she watched her bony fingers caress his back forcefully, straightening his posture.

"Hold yourself like you mean business for business-sake, not just for your next meal. Pathetic. And the haircut... I know it's the fashion nowadays, but really? You have such lovely cheekbones," she touched said features, a blush tickling her own high cheeks, "A short, straight style would accentuate them. Oh, you're wasted with Lestrade. You could make thousands with me..."

"I'm not looking for a business proposal, I just wanted some answers," Sherlock cut in, and the woman laughed.

"Who said anything about business? I'd much rather you, Mr Holmes, as something of my... toy. Oh; don't look at me like that, you're already a toy. I could have you here twice and make you beg for mercy both times."

"I never beg for mercy," Sherlock said stiffly.

"I've heard otherwise, Sherlock," she grinned, showing off her brilliantly white teeth.

"Who are you anyway?"

"Oh, you mean you don't know?" she feigned hurt, "Irene Adler, but you," she stepped towards Sherlock and he stepped to the side, "Can call me Irene. And don't worry. I am the boss. I'm _always_ the boss."

She shoved him backwards, and much to his surprise, the top of his thighs met with the edge of the desk, and his momentum forced him to sit; by which time Irene had leapt off the ground and sat on his lap, facing him, with each knee on the desk either side of him, so he was trapped. Sherlock was now facing in the direction of the door, and John wasn't sure he could see him; though he did sorrowfully catch his eye for a moment. He wasn't sure if it was intended.

"I was told escorts were less... forward," Sherlock struggled, but the woman had the manipulative power, thrusting her hips towards his torso so that it was extremely difficult, by the look on Sherlock's face, to stay upright.

John thought back to Lestrade, and wondered if Sherlock always got himself in these positions. Perhaps everyone in the business could do it, though, because Sherlock had done it to Sebastian.

"It's all about the profession with you, isn't it? I'm not acting as an escort, I'm acting as a woman. _The_ Woman."

Sherlock's arms suddenly gave way, and John grimaced at the sound of Sherlock's head hitting the wood. Now he could see nothing, save Sherlock's legs and the woman's backside. He couldn't hear much either- something like breathing was echoing around the corridor, but he couldn't be sure.

"Jennifer Wilson," he heard. "Heard of her?"

"No," came the female voice, "Is she your girlfriend? I never thought you were the type."

Sherlock made a non-descript noise.

A shiver ran up John's spine. He heard Sherlock say, "She was found dead in Laureston Gardens," and wondering why he was telling Irene that, when he got the feeling that someone was behind him.

He turned around, and was met with the surprised face of a short, dark-haired man.

Instinct taking over, John grabbed the man, forcing a hand to his mouth to stop him making a noise, but was taken aback when two puppy-like eyes just observed him innocently.

Slowly, he took his hand away.

"What do you want?" he hissed, glancing back through the gap to check they'd not disturbed anything. They hadn't, but John now didn't know what was going on because he had this man to deal with first.

"I should ask you the same thing," he whispered, a sweet little smile making John blush. He had a lovely Irish accent. "What do you expect to achieve hanging around there?"

John shrugged. This man wasn't going to do any harm, he told himself, or he'd have called out already.

"My... flatmate, in there," he played it cool, "He told me to wait here."

"Miss out on all the fun? Pfft. Richard, by the way," he held out a hand, and John accepted it graciously.

"John. Do you... work here? Sorry, that was... Sorry...!" That might have been an alright question to Sherlock, but not to this kindly stranger.

"Yeah- but don't sweat it, it's not a terrible job. Keeps me fed, gives me a roof to sleep under," he grinned bashfully. John liked him- he was the first person he'd met since Mike had tricked him into this whole shenanigan who was normal and down-to-earth.

There was silence for a moment, and John listened to the incoherent mumblings coming from the room. Richard crept to the other side of the door, beckoning John to follow- which he did, feeling a little stupid that he hadn't already.

"Is that Sherlock Holmes?" Richard asked. He sounded starstruck, in a twisted sort of way.

"Does everyone know him?" John exclaimed under his breath, and Richard just smiled.

"Yeah." The Irish was evident there. He pulled at his plain white t-shirt, and John wondered why he wasn't wearing a suit. Maybe Sherlock had been wrong. "Not always a good thing though. Stay low-profile, John, it'll do you alot of favours."

"Wait... I'm not... I don't work with Sherlock. Literally just flatmates, that's... that's not a euphemism."

"Oh." Something sparkled in Richard's eyes. "Then... Here, have my card... We should meet up sometime. Y'know. A drink. I could do with someone to talk to, y'know, outside of business, it's suffocating." John took the card- it just said his name, "Richard Brook", no profession, and two contact numbers and an email account. John smiled at him, and stowed it in his pocket. It was obvious by the look on Richard's face that he was chatting John up, and John found that he didn't at all mind. Richard had already paid him more attention in three minutes than Sherlock had given him in just under a week.

"I'll text you," John assured him, getting his phone from his pocket and tapping in the number, sending it a short text in the form of a smiley face. Richard's phone vibrated, and he looked pleased.

"Nice meeting you, John," Richard supressed a beaming smile as he walked off, back down the corridor whence John hadn't heard him come.

John's heart skipped a beat, and he had this funny feeling in his stomach that he knew he'd already felt recently.

Somewhat reluctantly, he turned back to the door. No surprise, Sherlock was still one the table. But something was off- no one was holding him there. Yet he was completely still...

John moved away from the door, and, to his hugest fright, saw a pair of cold, grey eyes observing him from around the door.

"You're an aquaintance of Sherlock's?"

John drew his gun.

"Oh, no need," she waved him off, "I don't feel threatened, not by a man wearing a pink tie. I will warn you, however, that I do not wish to see you sneaking around my establishment again, got it?" she said, all too silkily. John gulped, feeling like a mouse being observed casually by a passing snake. He put the gun back, and held his hands up in surrender.

She rolled her eyes at him, and dragged him into the room by his collar.

"You. Take him. I'm done."

"Wait!" John blurted. He had to finish the line of questioning, so he picked the one Sherlock wouldn't have covered. "Sebastian Moran. How much do you know about him?"

"The basics. Not that it's any of your business."

John edged towards Sherlock, regarding the woman as he went, lest he anger her, but she simply waved a hand, and he leapt the last step.

Sherlock's body was limp, but his eyes were half-open, and they flicked lazily to John's face as he stood over him, taking the small needle from underneath his arm.

"What have you done to him?"

"Just flunitrazepam. He wanted to talk to me, and I wanted to talk to him, and I didn't want him to remember either."

"Jhhhhgggnnnn..." Sherlock slurred quietly. Why was this always John's job?

Sherlock was stupid, he'd been seduced, in a weird way, into giving answers to questions himself, and then had been drugged into giving more, and forgetting what he'd said. And Irene had discovered John. And now John had to...

"Tell him from me that he'd be a credit to me, should he ever fancy joining the dark side," Irene added. John ignored her, taking hold of Sherlock's shoulders and lifting him up into a sort of collapsed standing position.

"He'll never do that. Come on, Sherlock, just walk, will you?!"

It was a slouchy, messy affair. John really could have done with having Richard to help get his flatmate back to 221B, because Sherlock was almost completely out by the time they were out in to the alleyway. John breathed deeply, glad to get out of the confinement of the agency, not bading The Woman a goodbye or stopping for a last minute question. He was done.

Irene Adler was not someone he wished to cross paths with again.

Richard, on the other hand...

His phone buzzed.

**How's dinner, tonight? If you're free ;) RB**


	17. Guilt

John sighed as he sat down, nursing a cup of steaming tea to his chest and loosening his shoulders.

He'd lain Sherlock on the sofa opposite, with the coat he'd almost forgotten to get out of the bin used as a makeshift blanket to huddle Sherlock's small frame; since John wasn't sure where the real covers were kept (other than the ones on his bed). He watched him closely, as if there was a threat of him disappearing if John blinked or looked away for even a second. For someone John was used to seeing with a sulky or mysterious expression on, Sherlock looked eerily peaceful; face impassive and features relaxed, interrupted only by his odd drunken mumble or a whimper.

Maybe that was why John couldn't hate him. It wasn't as if he hadn't the right to be pissed off: John wasn't particularly partial to being dragged into downright dangerous situations with a less-than-effusive hooker, especially when said situations got out of hand like they had that day. John had just managed to drag his drugged friend home in a taxi, after having given away information rather than find anything out. Essentially, today had been a disaster. They were still none the wiser on the culprit of the murder, and John could only hope they weren't next on his or her hitlist. Not only that, but Sherlock and John had probably created themselves a rather formidable foe in the shape of Irene Adler; and John had well and truly put himself on the radar in the business as Sherlock's partner-in-crime. Literally.

John was preparing himself, too, for Sherlock to wake up. He had to tell him that they weren't going to pursue the questioning any furthur: it stopped there, regardless of anything Mycroft or Lestrade said. Fin.

Everytime he closed his eyes, he had a flashback to the dropping sensation he felt in the moment he'd realised he'd been dicovered by Irene, and discovering a man who he strangely often found himself looking up to, lying on a desk in a drugged haze, despite the efforts of his John had seen in other situations, with joint manipulation and ferocious punching.

And yet, Sherlock'd failed against that scrap of a woman.

Looking at that particular detail in retrospect, John found himself starting to worry for his own competence. If such a scrawny woman could take down Sherlock so easily, and oh, oh so quietly too; he could just imagine how easy it would be for a trained assassin to get their hands on either of them.

Perhaps not even an assassin, either. Sherlock was weak and John knew for certain he himself lacked the street smarts. Together, they wouldn't work together, and they were a target.

Without taking a sip, he put his tea on the coffee table and stood up, desperately trying to focus. He didn't need the worry at the moment- he'd been searching around for a job over the past few days, and he had interviews and things to prepare for. His laptop was open, the screen black, on top of a stack of letters on Sherlock's desk, and it would have been productive of him to spend a quiet afternoon without Sherlock's whining and nagging to get some important filing done, but when he considered it, his stomach turned. Truthfully, he was just too preoccupied.

He began to pace the room, up and down between the door and the foot of the sofa Sherlock was lay on. He was still watching him sleep restlessly; like a paranoid hawk.

Never mind Sherlock, he told himself: his own head was swimming, thoughts clouded and dappled azure. It seemed impossible to get anything in a straight, logical line- there were too many things affecting each idea, like his old moral versus what he knew now, what other people had been saying to him, threats, danger, and his messed-up feelings towards people: like Sherlock, who he felt he needed to kiss sensually and punch in the nose simultaneously.

What a twat.

What a brilliant, _brilliant_ man.

And yet, that was were Richard came in. John liked Richard too, even if he barely knew anything about him... And he wasn't sure what Richard was looking for. He'd been forward, he'd been charming. But did John like him, or like-like him?

It was hard to judge after a single solitary conversation, lasting in itself no longer than three minutes.

Perhaps he was something of a consolation prize for John- he was a kind, rather dashing chap, with a smile that made John go warm inside- but he wasn't a patch of the vigour of Sherlock Holmes.

It wasn't again, as if John didn't have doubts over his attitude, but he had to admit to himself that Richard would be a good place to start exploring his newly admitted attraction to men. He seemed to understand John, and wasn't, of yet, too touchy-feely. They could have fun.

John had things to give in return.

Perhaps, he thought to himself, it would also be a good oppurtunity to wean himself off something that was bad for him, and that he could never have.

And what did he have to lose from a measly date?

Sherlock stirred, and he jumped. His heart was pounding in his chest cavity, as if he'd just run a mile. He sped up his pace, ricochetting between one wall and the next, restless, thoughtful, anxious.

"Jhnnnggg," came a deep mumble again, and John stopped, leaning over the edge of the couch to get a closer look at what was a sweaty, groggy version of his flatmate. His eyes were open in slits, so John couldn't tell if he was even looking at him. His hair was sticking to his head in the most unhygenic fashion, and when he spoke again, his baritone words seemed to vibrate the air, raising the hairs on the back of John's neck to end.

"Wh't..."

The prostitute groaned again, and lunged awkwardly into the air. John found himself leaping over the arm of the sofa rather athletically, in order to steady him and stop him falling off the cushion onto the hard floor.

"Just stay still, will you?" John demanded, locking his jaw in irritation. Sherlock, who John could tell was coming around, rolled his head wearily to look at John from underneath those heavy lids, and smiled; a soft, pink smile that Sherlock would never have pulled if he weren't coming out of a sedative.

"J'hn," he said with decisiveness. The effect was lost through the fact that he'd barely whispered it.

"Sherlock." Flunitrazepam could induce anterograde amnesia, John thought, so added, "You were drugged."

"Dr'd?" Sherlock asked. He tried to reach his hands to his head, but his limbs were still too heavy. "Ir'ne, John, wh't d'you do..."

"Sherlock, Irene drugged you, you idiot. You let yourself get talked into it too, I was there!"

"You w'th're?"

John gulped.

"I'm sorry I couldn't help you Sherlock..."

"D'you t'lk to her?" Despite the slurred string of words tumbling haphazardly from his mouth and the way his eyelids flickered like broken butterfly wings, John could tell that Sherlock's mind was working as if he were fully awake. He crouched down to Sherlock's level.

"She'd gotten all she wanted from you. You didn't find anything out, did you?"

"She w's tell'n' t'truth, J'hn. Sheeeee..." He exhaled suddenly, regressing back into the pillow, before continuing, "She'd n'thing t'do with Jen'ffer."

"That's good. That means we have no lines of inquiry left."

" _Good?_ " Sherlock looked vaguely cross.

"We're not chasing this thing, Sherlock. God knows what would have happened to you had I not been there," John ranted, "Leave the police to do their job. Y'know, maybe Lestrade was right, and it has nothing to do with you, and it's just pure coincidence-"

"L'sten t'yourself!" Sherlock yelled suddenly, throwing his legs out onto the floor and sitting up groggily and uncertainly, so that John felt he needed to be in a position to stay close in case Sherlock's limbs suddenly failed beneath him.

He had not signed up for this.

"Y'know L'strade 's wrong. Mycroft knows..." he hiccupped, "Too. D'n't deny it, J-John. Whoever it is is circling, g'tting cl'ser 'nd closer. Tell Molly y'think 'm lying."

John despaired. Sherlock looked hurt that John was rejecting his story. In all honesty, of course John believed Sherlock's story: there was very little explanation of Jennifer's death otherwise that wouldn't link to Sherlock. However, the police were unlikely to make the link, and with no other leads other than Irene Adler, they had reached a dead end in their short-lived search for a murderer.

"But you said it was Sebastian who went for Molly," John muttered, thinking aloud.

"He's w'rking f'r someone."

"And what... What are they trying to achieve then, if you think they're coming for you?"

Sherlock shrugged.

Mycroft probably knew the answer, but he wasn't disclosing.

"They'll come f'r you, John," he added, as John got to his feet, knees clicking in the process. John ignored the comment, returning instead to where he had been pacing before.

John didn't think he should tell Sherlock that anyone who could get close to him was already well in range of the hooker.

He looked up at the clock. The day had gone so fast- already it was nearly half-past four. His mind turned instantly to Richard, who had texted him the address of a nice restaurant about twenty minutes walk from Baker Street: apparently some high-end Italian place, according to the Google maps page on his laptop, which did nice ricotta and spinach calzoni. He forgot Sherlock and his problems for a moment to ponder what he should wear in a teenager-ish way: concluding that he had to wear his black dress suit, because it was the only decent thing he had. Damn Sherlock always looked classy, but he could hardly steal his clothes, they'd never fit. Perhaps, he thought, if he wore one of his normal shirts underneath rather than the white one, it would look cooler and more casual.

His stomach was all in knots. He'd not been on a date for ages, nevermind that he'd never been on one with a man before.

"John." Sherlock's voice brought him back down to earth with a resounding thunk. "You look str'nge. Wh't's going 'n?"

No use keeping it from him.

"I've got a date." He couldn't hide the pleased tone from his voice, though he regretted every word as he saw Sherlock's expression shatter. He fell back onto the pillow, with a breath of air as his head contacted it.

There were different kinds of knots forming now: ones of guilt, as John found himself torn between two men.

"Fine." Sherlock's reply sounded restrained, and slightly strangled.

John stood still.

He still loved Sherlock.

"I'll... I'll just go and get ready then," John finished lamely, creaking across the floorboards towards the stairs. When he reached the door, he turned to look at the pitiful man curled up on the sofa, looking small and fragile underneath the huge Belstaff coat. He was still wearing his scarf, too, after John had put it around his neck for safe-keeping on the journey home in the taxi.

"I don't think you should work tonight, Sherlock."

"Don't tell me wh't to do," he growled, but didn't rise.

There was the sound of footsteps up the stairs, and the roll of the bathroom lock, and Sherlock was alone in the room, feeling desolate and confused.


	18. Moonlit Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really bad at writing Irene. Partially because I don't like her, especially in the BBC version. SACD's view of women is partially to do with the time, but the BBC version is this abominable mish-mash of sexuality, BDSM, and mistaken feminism, somewhere. Sorry, rant.

John was invisible amongst the fine tailoring and plummy voices, feeling like a shadow in the night as he slunk up in front of the restaurant Richard had told him they should meet at. The night air was ferociously cold, and the glow of the candles and lights from within the restaurant spilled out onto the emptying pavement, inviting, but John held back, leaning casually against the wall to the side of the door, as if he were waiting for someone. Which wasn't entirely untrue. Richard had, however, told him to meet him inside, at that delicately lit bar that John could see quite clearly through the immaculate window.

The problem being, that John Watson was busy panicking.

It had only occured to him at the end of the street that he might have been doing something completely stupid, for a few reasons. The biggest, most nagging one, that clung at him like a bawling child on a mother's leg, was his own questioning of his sexuality. He certainly felt something for Sherlock, but what if he was straight beside that? Was he going to embarrass himself in front of Richard? It seemed like a ridiculous thing to despair over, John had told himself, when one stepped back from it: or at least, he'd been able to think that way a minute beforehand. Now, with the imminence of showing for a date with a man, John's legs were refusing to work properly, somehow becoming stiff _and_ jelly-like simultaneously. His heart was fluttering with daring. He was on fire. But his brain told him no: it told him to go back and look after his gauche flatmate.

Well, it wasn't as if John wasn't a soldier. He could ignore his mind and what it demanded of him if the time came to kill a man, or similar feats (like matters of love). Unfortunately, the contributing factors kept him rooted in the shadow of the building, as he attracted a stare from a smoker stood in the atmosphere of gentry and nicotine to the side of the front door.

Also, there was the small matter of where John had picked Richard up. He was an escort, and probably not friendly with Sherlock, judging by Irene's reaction to John. Because Irene was presumably Richard's boss...?

He massaged his temples, blinking his eyes rapidly in order to clear his vision of the cold.

He wasn't frightened.

Not of the danger getting close with Richard, anyway, because he only had to look into his inviting, hazel eyes the once to know Richard didn't have the capacity to hurt a fly.

He did, however, squirm uncomfortably as he thought about someone else- a faceless figure, a whisper in the darkness of ominous things to come- that would close in on him and Sherlock. And when the clock ran out, it would be his fault, because he would have played into it, slowly but surely: like a kitten pawing curiously at the end of a ball of yarn, before becoming more and more confident, and then pouncing at it.

And then he found himself fretting about whether this was counted as cheating or not.

On Sherlock.

Who hadn't given him an answer.

 _Shut up_ , he told himself, shaking his head crossly, and exhaling, shrugging his shoulder to release some of the tension. Sherlock was at Baker Street, sulking. It was therefore his fault if he'd not made his feelings known a week after John had declared, rather embarrassingly, his.

The smoking man eyed him wearily as he passed, dropping his glowing cigarette and stubbing it out like they did in films; stylishly, under the toe of a polished shoe. John had a violent urge to stop in order to watch him do it, but he didn't, as not only would it look strange, but the man had an angrily shaven moustasche, that demanded people to fear him.

A bit like Hitler's, John considered, but it was more schoolteacher authority than psychotic dictator in shape.

He felt the gazes fall onto him as he stumbled in, just for an instant, before they all returned to their meals and drinks. There was a quiet hum of noise inside- a good level, between being unable to hold an audible conversation and awkward silence. The secor was minimalistic and the lighting was low, and the people around him sat with their shoulders set back in fine dresses and tailored suits.

He scanned the room quickly, noting that he had not made a faux-pas on the fashion front, thankfully- even without Sherlock's help, which he'd been tempted to ask for. Spotting Richard waving from the other side of the bar, he found himself walking cooly over, feeling, at once, the nervousness melting away.

"Hey John," came the welcome, and he patted a stool at the bar.

"Hey," John echoed. He bit his lip, cringing at how ridiculous "Hey" could sound when he said it. Richard, it seemed, didn't notice, instead calling over the busty barmaid and asking John for his order.

"I... Um... Just a water?"

"Oh, c'mon John, don't make me be the only one drinking. Have a drink." He fluttered his eyelashes, gazing at him with that damnable intensity... and John had already caved, changing his order with a blush; "White wine spritzer. Sauvignon," he added, before she asked.

Richard's eyebrows were raised. John, who had stopped nibbling his lip for fear of it bleeding, was about to ask as to why when he spotted the empty minature and three-quarter full glass at his elbow.

"Great minds think alike," John chuckled. The barmaid pushed his spritzer into his hands.

"Ah, but fools seldom differ," Richard grinned like a cheshire cat, and shuffled a little closer. Comfortably close. Not intimate. Friendly.

"Men are both," John mused, and Richard nodded in agreement.

"I like that you're not one for small talk, John," The ghost of a smile hovered on Richard's lips as he talked. "Clients think I'm rude when I don't engage in the stupid ritual of "Hi! Hi! How are you? I'm fine, how are you? I'm fine." John snorted with the truth in that statement, as Richard continued, "It's tedious. Booooring. You can't yawn in their face."

Sherlock didn't do small talk either.

"You yawn in their faces?"

"Haha... I should, shouldn't I? No. Sorry."

There was a momentary lapse in conversation.

"So... What do you do, John; I've invited you here, and I'm talking about myself, sorry-"

"No, no, it's fine." John found himself blushing like a schoolgirl- with the realisation that he was blushing making him blush furthur. With tremendous control over the pitch of his voice, he continued, "I... Yes. Um... I'm a doctor. In the army- well, I used to be."

"Used to be?" Richard seemed genuinely interested. "Whereabouts?"

"Afghanistan. I don't really do anything now, just laze about..."

"I found your blog though," Richard nudged him, and he sat bolt upright, giggling nervously.

"Really?" He took a long sip of his drink. Sparkling and fresh- this place paid attention to detail, then. "What did you think?"

"Haha... Nothing, really, 's just your daily life, right?... Some of the stuff with Sherlock was a bit different though, wasn't it?" He added, a scandalised glint in his eye.

"What a pain that man is."

"So I'm told. He's infamous."

"No, I know that, like, he's the best or whatever," it felt strange talking about Sherlock so casually, but there was a fuzzy feeling in his brain (perhaps a buzz from nervousness), so he ignored any qualms he might have and indulged in gossip with Richard, "But I dunno, is it normal for guys in your business to just mope around all day? And then he's running out the door at five, six o'clock, without notice. Wait... That was a bit rude..."

"I can't really speak for everyone else."

"O-Oh?"

"No, not that escorts and prostitutes are that much different. We have more class. No- I'm an actor during the day. Freelance, mostly."

"What's that like?"

Richard's laugh tinkled, and he downed the remaining spritzer in the bottom of his glass. "Even more draining than sex. C'mon," he slipped from his seat, "I sit in fancy restaurants like this every evening to entertain some pompous sod, let's say we shake things up."

John's heart was fluttering again as Richard flicked a twenty pound note onto the counter and put his hand gently inside John's. His eyebrows: two hirsute little caterpillars, wiggled delightedly, the cheeky Irish grin making John feel less forced into following Richard back out onto the street.

"Quite spontaneous, aren't you?" John smiled as Richard led him along the pavement.

"Actually... no. I'm never given the chance. But you appreciate it, John- you're human, your not just another face in the crowd. You care."

The doctor had nothing to say to that. He stayed silent, looking between the clinquant stars above, sparkling like diamonds or shards of broken glass, and Richard, who still had hold of his hand. They were heading for the riverbank.

He laughed aloud when he saw where Richard had taken him.

"Chips on the riverbank!" Richard protested, and John wiped a tear from his eye. Despite how amazingly corny it was, John couldn't help but feel moved by the romantic gesture behind it. It mystified him too- Richard had gotten to know him so well over a mere half and hour, and seemed to know exactly what he liked- or, that in fact, back when he'd been a student, he'd come here often to buy a bag of chips when money was too short for much else.

Happy coincidence.

With an overwhelming sense of nostalgia, John ordered the same plain chips with too much vinegar he as always had, and savoured the acidic smell and warm feel of the bag under his fingers as they stepped back out into the cold. They began to walk the wrong way back along the Thames, enjoying each other's company as they picked at their greasy food, whilst the dark water lapped at the bank below.

"So, tell me more about yourself," Richard encouraged, flicking a burnt scrap at a one-legged pidgeon, which gobbled it up greedily before any other bird could nab it.

"There's not alot more to tell. I don't do alot."

"Tell me about Afghanistan."

"No," John said before he could stop himself. He hadn't meant to be rude, he just didn't fancy himself ruining a date with those memories. Richard, however, forever understanding, corrected himself before John could babble an apology."I'm sorry, that was rude. We've only just met. Tell me, then; what are you into?"

"Um... I..." John asked himself what would make good conversation. "Theater, I guess. But I don't go very often."

"It's expensive," Richard agreed. "Comedy or drama?"

"Both. I'm not one for musicals, or anything... Um... If I wanted music, I'd go to the proms or the opera or something."

"Perhaps I'll take you," Richard smiled. "It's always awkward going alone, no matter how much you enjoy the music."

"Ok." He paused. "Sherlock... plays the violin every now and again."

"Hm?"

"It's quite nice, he does Bach among other things. I... I did clarinet in school, exc- but I was never any good."

"See, you do do stuff." Richard giggled. He stopped, leaning against the railings and peering curiously over the bar into the black, purling river. John could feel his heart thumping under his shirt, echoing in his chest like a heavy bass drum; de-dum, de-dum, de-dum.

Richard closed his eyes. The moon shone on his face, illuminating the curve of his nose and accentuating the shadow underneath his eyebows so that his face became unfamiliar and ethereal. It was a mere moment later that John found himself leaning into Richard and tasting his salty lips: but, even when John thought about it later, he couldn't even call it kissing. He'd kissed many people in his life, from the girl who gave him his first Valentine's to the rather short-term girlfriend who'd left him the apple and kiwi shampoo. To say what he'd done with them, a short, maybe flustered, pressing of lips, was the same as how he could taste Richard; feel the electricity pulsating throughout every single cell in his body and his knees go so weak he could barely believe when he pulled away that he was still in contact with the ground. His bitter taste hung on John's lips, which he licked at every now and again in shameless indulgence.

He found himself daring Sherlock to surpass Richard's skills.

The only thing, John thought, was that Richard didn't seem to have enjoyed the intimacy nearly as much as he did, even though he partly instigated it. He looked distracted by something, glancing at a solitary drunk as they lurched into the pool of light beneath a streetlamp, before tripping backwards, bent double, back into the darkness, and disappearing from sight.

"Are you OK?" John mumbled. Richard jerked his attention towards John, not a trace of guilt crossing his features.

"Short and sweet, I'm afraid," he whispered, "It's been great, John. Do you want me to walk you back?"

John pondered his offer. He really wanted to just mull things over for a bit- mostly to confine the memory of kissing Richard to a quiet corner of his mind to enjoy as a rare, heavenly moment of utter bliss.

"It's OK. I... Um..." He didn't want to sound trite. "I guess... I'd like to see more of you?"

"The sentiment is mutual," Richard smiled flatly. "Just text me."


	19. Azure

It had been quick. Rather quick, in fact- John didn't think he'd ever been on a date that had taken a mere hour and a half.

As a metaphor, he thought, it had to be compared to aquatic life- there had been a dreamlike sense to the experience, like riding a giant manta ray, with the rush of the current on his face and the exhilirating feeling in his stomach throughout, as he was taken to places he's never before seen. Like that kiss- lo! the sheer, unadulterated bliss!

Except, when he lost his grip on the manta ray, things got out of control, and the fish would away, leaving John a lonely man, with a crushing sense of self-betrayal as he found himself floating in the infinitely large ocean, surrounded by nothing but the azure waters and a few fish; curiously observing as he began to thrash for the surface. Desperate for air, and weight.

And yet, despite the expanse of his world, he found himself trapped by his own morality. He loved both Sherlock and Richard in the same way- and even though they were in similar professions, if he could again think of it like that, the love John felt for them were polar opposite. With Richard, he was appreciated. They were similar- making small observations on life, laughing about the trivial, and sticking to normal conversation and action. Richard complemented John because he was more outgoing, which is why John had been secrety thrilled with the prospect of dropping all manner of cliché date things in favour of getting chips like students.

The remainder of which, he was now throwing at the few pigeons who had gathered on the pavement.

The love he felt for Sherlock was more forbidden; _l'amour interdit_. Well, compared to Richard, anyway- the fact that he had recently acted on his homosexual tendencies, on a prostitute and an escort no less, had been temporarily been subtracted from the equation by his brain. Perhaps, then, the word he was looking for was unrequited. Sherlock's redamancy, or lack thereof, was just a reason for his yearning to amplify, blooming like a crimson rose's efflorescence.

And, unlike Richard, Sherlock was so brilliantly complicated: he was sex, vulnerability, wanted, loathed, mysterious yet compliant, and wonderfully idiosyncratic in himself. It had taken little more than half a day to fall, awfully so, in love.

Moodily, he threw to packet of chips in the bin. He stalked moodily along the side of the Thames, along the embankment, glancing intermittently at the vivid lights decorating the Millennium Eye.

He wondered where the drunk from before had gone.

Ignoring the gelid temperature, he decided he'd walk back to Baker Street. After all, he needed to think.

\-------------------------------------------

By the time he got back to 221B, he was frozen. He'd not cut through the park: for some reason, the thought of a wide open space where he was exposed sent a shiver down his spine. Therefore, he stuck to the streets, keeping to the shadows to avoid any upset with some of the rowdier party-goers, watching the floor and making no eye contact. His head swirled with a myriad of thoughts, and he had clasped his bomber jacket tightly about himself, wishing he'd borrowed Sherlock's scarf.

Everything was silent when he entered, except the gust of wind from behind him rattling the umbrella rack in the hall outside Ms. Hudson's door- but when he shut the door, it was even more silent. He didn't know silence could feel so... suffocating.

He stomped up the stairs, shedding his jacket as he went. He wasn't in the mood to have to face Sherlock, if he were perfectly honest with himself; he merely wanted to retreat to his bedroom and sleep, without having to think about murders, carry-on or multiple love interests, or explain himself to anyone. Anyone and everyone.

However, Sherlock, in his seemingly invariable bid to usurp John's sanity, was still up.

Well, John corrected himself, it wasn't that late, and considering Sherlock was barely ever in before 1AM, it was almost expected. The thing was, he hadn't moved from the exact position in which John had left him earlier: or so it seemed, because he'd obviously had a shower, from his semi-wet hair and the fact he'd changed into a strangly innocent pair of striped pyjama bottoms, t-shirt and loosely-tied blue dressing gown. John found himself attracted to his feet, which were sat in the arm of the sofa, crossed. They were a fine specimen of human form- each sinew and bone apparent and beautifully toned, so much so that John felt, had he have been and artist, he would have felt inclined to run for a sharp pencil and Moleskine and demand Sherlock stay still for at least an hour.

He was, however, not; and therefore did none of these things. Instead, he said hello, moodily, and wandered into the kitchen with want of something to do.

"There are beers in the fridge," Sherlock called from behind him.

That would suffice, he thought, but poked his head back in the lounge first.

"Beers?"

"Yes, you know the ones; generally in cans or glass bottles, colour of urine-"

"Yes, I know... It's just... Er... You went out?"

"Yes." A stop. "Why," he asked, voice grazing some of the deepest notes imaginable, "Aren't I allowed?"

"I... Wha- no. I just thought... It looked like you'd not gone anywhere, at all. So, why beer...?"

"If I don't drink?" Sherlock supplied, "I think social protocol called for it earlier. An apology for how I got myself- well, us- into trouble. And found nothing."

"For being an arse," John summarised, but was smiling. Sherlock said nothing, but John felt that he agreed, even if he didn't admit it. The feeling in his stomach momentarily subsided with the warmth from his own melodic chuckle as he walked to the fridge to pick a can from the six-pack Sherlock had, indeed, bought.

"I assume you don't want one?" John called, just to check.

"Don't."

"Thought so," he muttered, closing the fridge. He looked about the kitchen, steadying as the guilt and shame from the aftermath of his date returned.

A bit like his love-life, the kitchen was a mess. It seemed Sherlock, although he only drank milk, used a different glass everytime he did so, and left them sporadically along the surface. There were crumbs next to the hob, and something in oil congealing in the pan, making the wooden spoon resting on the side stick fast against the worn Teflon. John himself might have made bacon in that pan, he wasn't sure.

All the same, he threw the pan in the sink and unscrewed the hot tap, thawing his fingers gradually under it as the heat rose, until it began to scald him and he flicked the pan underneath it instead, snapping open the ring pull of his beer and taking a sip as it filled up. It was cool, but very bitter- and more bitter than he thought it should be. Perhaps he'd gone off beer- he'd enjoyed the white wine spritzer...

He turned the tap off grumpily, and found a scouring pad to scrub it with. That was, until he looked down at the pan, and back at the scouring pad, and remembered that any of the remaining non-stick on the pan would soon be no more if he used the scourer. Consequently, he threw it in the sink with the pan, and decided he'd let the pan soak, and do it in the morning.

As he reached for the can of beer again, there was a creak on the linoleum behind him. Sherlock was stood folornly in the doorway. His dressing gown had untied, revealing to John how the clothes he had on hung sadly off him.

Maybe Sherlock had made the bacon.

"Um... Do you want something? I-I mean... To eat? Or drink?"

Sherlock shook his head, and his lips stretched into a thin, contented smile. He looked quite innocent, but John couldn't forget how that could all change so quickly.

"Ok... Um..."

"Not good?"

"Sorry?" John was confused.

"Sorry- your date, did it... go badly?"

John avoided Sherlock's blank gaze, instead looking into the casual middle distance, which ended up being a spider web in the opposite corner of the room.

"It was... Um... I..." He decided he didn't have to answer. "I... I'm going to bed, Sherlock. Glad to see you're... better."

"Wait," Sherlock said, blocking John's path as he moved towards the door, stepping in with one hand lightly on John's chest.

"What is it?" John asked irately, but some of the annoyance caught in his throat as he looked up into a pair of swimming blue eyes.

"I wanted to make it clear that I'm sorry. Molly texted me, she said I was too mean to you. You can tell me to piss off, you know, I'm not anybody special," he grinned sadly, and the reminder was there again, in a startlingly human light for Holmes- he didn't think much of himself. Arrogance was just a façade to keep him from becoming a victim of society.

It was admirable, really.

John sighed a long, heavy sigh.

"It... It's OK," he said wearily, and tried to move past again. Sherlock still blocked him, regarding him with a serious look again. Outside in the street, John could hear yells, and he found himself wondering if the drunk from the embankment had followed him back to Baker Street.

"I... I was just wondering; is your offer from before... Still open?"

"Offer?" John asked quizzically, his breathing shallow. Sherlock's brows furrowed.

"I..." his voice was a mere whisper, a breath on the wind; "I..." He straightened his face. "Can I kiss you?"

John nearly choked on his own saliva. Which sounded like a good reflection of the intensity of the moment, but in reality, he ended up bent double, coughing loudly. Sherlock tried to straighten him up, wearing a worried expression as he pushed him away, but once he'd finished with his outburst, he stood in his own time, fixing Sherlock with a serious look.

"Why?"

"I... I don't know, I just thought, y'know..." he looked shiftily to the side, "I wanted to test a thesis." John frowned, and so Sherlock extended, blinking, "I couldn't get that thing in the underground off my mind, and I don't care with whom you went on a date, but..."

"Right," John said rather lamely. There were butterflies in his stomach, and this weightlessness in his head that was egging him to go for it. Except he couldn't. He should know better than to get with Sherlock now, after getting close to Richard- playing one off the other would obviously end in disaster.

But there he was; all he wanted was a simple kiss, nothing else. Not yet. In fact, forget that- Sherlock was asexual. It didn't count as cheating if they didn't get up to anything. And he was so, so close...

Alas, just as Sherlock went to lean in and John's morals began to go haywire, there was an almighty banging on the door downstairs, and the yelling from before became coherent.

"Heeeeey! 221A, 221B, open up! Pleeeease!"

"Do you know them?" Sherlock asked, stepping back. John shook his head- it didn't sound like anyone he knew. His mind listed suspects- Richard, Harry, Mike, Molly, Lestrade, one of his old girlfriends- but he could eliminate a few through logic, and the rest didn't fit with the high, male pitch of the voice.

"No. Do you?" When Sherlock shook his head, unsure, John strolled past him, insisting, "I'll get it." He was thankful of the distraction to get him from the claustrophobic kitchen and the stifling and yet desirable atmosphere he now associated with his flatmate.

Ms Hudson met him in the hall, staying back from the door in a quietly frightened way. It still wasn't that late, but it was the nature of the banging and the shouting that put her off; that, and that neither flat had many callers.

"I don't know who it might be," Ms Hudson said before he could ask, "You'll manage, won't you, John? I'll be right here, I've got a baseball bat and I will use it..."

"I'm sure there'll be no need, Ms Hudson," he reassured her, giving her arm a quick rub before moving bravely towards the door and wasting no time in wrenching it open.

"Oh... Hi." He was met with a man of about thirty, in jeans and a jacket, much like John himself- except, a his feet, was a younger man, sprawled in the shadows on the doorstep, his hazel hair askew and his clothes ruffled up. There was something strange about the position in which he was lay, and John couldn't take his eyes of him. Was he unconcious? Drunk?

"Um, I'm sorry about the shouting, but I saw this guy on your doorstep...? Do you know him? I... I think he's drunk- passed out."

John knelt down, his doctor instincts taking him to the primary survey. His airway seemed clear; there was no sick, so he leant into the man's face to see if he was breathing. John panicked. He couldn't feel it, so he fumbled for the wrist next to the man's head for a pulse.

"Sherlock!" he yelled back into the flat. He could see Ms Hudson with her wide eyes gleaming in the dark; like a cat.

His wrist was warm, and wet, and eerily still. He brought his hand away quickly and looked at the blackish liquid between his fingers. That was warm too...

"SHERLOCK!" John yelled again, looking back at the stairs. It was a few moments before he appeared, looking a little see-through as he descended the stairs.

"Is everything alright?" the guy stood above the man asked. John said nothing, instead holding his hands up to the light outside the door, a chill running down his spine as he looked at the glistening red liquid dripping down his wrist and onto the cuff of his jacket.

He could feel Sherlock's presence at his side, and the guy outside the door was looking at him with a worried expression.

"You alright mate?"

John looked up.

Sherlock was paying no attention to either of them- he was staring down at the man on the ground, as white as a sheet.

"Sherlock...? Say something."

"That's... my client."


	20. A Gathering

"So... A serial killer?" John asked softly, in a voice so quiet almost no one could hear him.

"So he says," Lestrade replied gruffly. His hands were stuffed deep into the pockets of his duffle coat, and, despite his deep-set frown from the cold and the flashing blue lights on his face, he looked more relaxed than when John had previously met him. Not that he still didn't feel intimidated- especially since it was just the two of them, and Sally lurking behind them. Nearby, Sherlock was talking to a police-woman with a notepad outside the flat, and so Lestrade, Sally and John were stood in the shadows of the gathering, acting as silent onlookers, overlooked in the flurry of activity. John could also see Ms Hudson, talking worriedly with a bobby with an admirable handlebar-moustasche.

Now he came to it, he thought as he squirmed uncomfortably, he wasn't sure why Lestrade and Sally had turned up. Sherlock hadn't hesistated in asking Ms Hudson to call the police, before scrupulously surveying the man, tilting his head to one side, to ascertain his identity as his recent client. He then demanded the man who found him stay, which he did, awkwardly standing by as sirens wailed into existence and Sherlock paced up and down restlessly, saying nothing. And now here they were.

There was a blonde-haired police woman nearby, eyeing the unlikely sideline trio with a beady gaze. John could feel the cold crawling in from outside his bomber jacket, searching for refuge between his skin and painfully thin t-shirt, and he began to twiddle his thumbs, starting at them intently and pretending not to see the police-woman. However, she hovered stubbournly in his peripheral vision, silently observing them. Blue lights flashed in their faces, giving each party a distinctive black shadow on one side of their face- the other dancing with sharp colours, almost as if in a dream. Or a drugs trip.

"Is this not unnecessary attention?" Sally complained, rubbing her stockinged knees together.

"No," John insisted loudly, "Two of..." he changed to a whisper, "Sherlock's clients have died, and someone tried to abuse Molly."

"Someone? You mean Sebastian," Sally sneered. But Lestrade, much to John's surprise, cut in before he could answer.

"Yes, and we've established that Sebastian is working for someone. So even if Sebastian was the culprit of the murders, it wouldn't be him we're looking for; though the rozzers, on the other hand..."

John thought back to when he first met Lestrade, about a week ago, and how he'd jammed Sherlock on the table and had John threatened with a knife. And now Lestrade was arguing his side against his own employee.

"Why, though? Sebastian was the one who supposedly did it."

"But he's just a pawn. If I ordered you to steal from someone, the police would come after you, but whichever fucker you pinched would be after my arse. Don't get the police and justice mixed up, they're not the same thing, got it?"

Sally shrugged in surrender, wiping at her smudged eyeliner.

"So John," Lestrade began, turning towards him sharply, "I hear you have been chatting with Irene Adler. Find anything?"

John cleared his throat nervously, glancing over to the flat, where Sherlock seemed to have disappeared from sight. There was some sort of movement- an amalgamated sense of urgency about the scene. Perhaps because time was getting on, and it was late. Then again, he reckoned he'd just spotted a TV van, so perhaps everything had just begun.

They'd already tried questioning John. They'd told him his rights, taken notes; but it soon became clear that John knew as much about the possible circumstance of the death of the man, who's name, apparently, was James Phillimore, as an emperor penguin did about Panama.

"We did," John muttered, "But we didn't find anything; Sherlock got drugged..." He wasn't sure why he was making excuses to Lestrade- he was the one, after all, who didn't really believe that any of these happenings were at all related to his prize hooker. He stopped talking, and looked at his feet, ignoring Lestrade as he ran his fingers through his silvery hair next to him.

"Bet he liked that: woman like Irene Adler, giving him what no one else will. Hmm." He sounded amused.

"So is Sherlock an addict?" John blurted out, unable to restrain his inquisition any longer, the subject having been bandied around John in the background since he'd met Sherlock.

"Debatable."

"Debatable?!" Sally spat, sounding scandalised by the mere thought of the word, and was about to carry on when Lestrade shot her a warning look. Strange, John thought: until Lestrade cracked a strained smile at him, at which point his stomach flipped with the tension and the uneasy feeling that the universe was out of balance, with the universal concept of cause to effect disastrously spinning out of synchronisation... Lestrade had just smiled. At him.

"Why don't you speak to the devil himself?" Lestrade sneered, and John realised then, that it wasn't him Lestrade was smiling at- there was someone behind him. He felt his blood run cold as he turned on his heel; coming face-to-face with a familiar hook-nosed, if not slightly pudgy face giving him a cold and calculated glare as only one man could give him.

"Go on, Sally Donovan," Mycroft Holmes drawled, voice grating in John's ears, "Please enlighten me as to what you think my little brother takes. I'd love to know; after all, I expect it accounts for much of his behaviour. Including being better in bed than you."

John wasn't sure whether he should laugh or grimace at that remark. Sally's cheeks rose in a rich scarlet as Mycroft licked his lips: two actions which John felt he could infer enough about their past relations from.

"Okay now Mycroft, Sherlock doesn't give a fuck about what Sally here thinks. Neither do many of us... Just, lay off 'er, 'kay?"

"As you wish," Mycroft replied delicately, twisting the handle of his umbrella round his long, elegant fingers. "I don't suppose you'd like to buy a book about China?"

John did a double take as Mycroft produced a thin pamplet about, as he'd said, China, and handed it promptly to Lestrade, who stowed it stealthily in his jacket.

"Is it okay here?" Lestrade muttered, looking pointedly towards John, and then the police.

"It's a pun," John mumbled, but no one was listening. China White- he realised, as Lestrade, in turn, handed him an envelope, not taking his eyes off the police gathering as he did so. John couldn't quite believe this was happening, feeling more than uncomfortable with being treated as a child whilst the adults dealt drugs: until he told himself that he was fortunately neither a pimp nor a dealer, that he was a damn good doctor and, as they'd said in school, drugs were never the way.

"It is for me," Mycroft replied, and Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "And another thing: you don't own Sherlock. He owes you. Please distinguish the two," he said, voice trembling ever so slightly. He stowed the envelope casually in his pocket, and Lestrade looked distinctly relieved that the transaction had been completed without anything happening.

John ground his teeth, looking around the police cars for Sherlock. Unfortunately, he was nowhere to be seen.

Just as he was about to make an excuse to scuttle off, like it seemed Sally had after her exchange with Mycroft, there was a firm grip on his shoulder and the tall drug dealer himself was steering him towards a dark and forlorn corner of Baker Street, between some bins and a wall of artistically mute graffiti. John clenched his hands into fists as Mycroft spun him round forcefully, pulling a little face as he realised his palms were clammy and drenched with sweat.

"Have you re-considered my offer yet?"

"What?" John muttered, "You still want me to watch him. Me? Mycroft, two people have been killed." As usual with a Holmes, John sounded more confident than he felt. "Whoever it is doing this isn't about to be stopped by some retired army doctor. Whoever it is... is closing in," he theorised, desperately trying to scare Mycroft, hopefully with the outcome of gaining the information he wouldn't give them back in the flat. "They go for Sherlock's clients... Well, they started by not paying Sherlock, through Sebastian; then Molly, then someone's killed that Sherlock did... ahem, business with, somewhere in London, and now, someone's been killed on our doorstep. Your brother's doorstep," he hissed. "I'm at as much a risk as he is, and god knows, you can't seriously expect me to follow Sherlock...?"

"That was the idea, yes. You're hardier than you think, John." His voice was dripping with tame condescending tones, like a parent reprimanding a young boy for pulling his sister's hair. John could feel patience ebbing away, replaced by engulfing anger, with stewed and boiled like scalding water in his throat.

"Why don't you do it?" Mycroft frowned disapprovingly, and John gave a burst of laughter, looking back at the crime scene. "Oh god, don't tell me; he broke your Action Man?"

"Let's consider the facts," Mycroft deadpanned, "I deal illegal substances. Sherlock is an addict. He is also a prostitute, and he hates me, but won't tell you why. What," his voice wavered with anger and a bitter, bitter regret, "Can you infer from that?"

To say John felt stupid was an understatement. He did feel stupid, for about three seconds, his brows furrowed as he concentrated on the information which, although he'd already known, Mycroft had summarised for him. And then, it just all slid together, and the jigsaw was complete- a terrible, haunting truth staring plainly at him, making him reel back from Mycroft.

"Wha... It's... IT'S YOUR FAULT?" he yelled, barely able to contain himself.

"John, please." Mycroft's face was a veil, revealing, if possible, less emotion than he normally did. His voice, however, shook with restraint, or something similar that John couldn't quite identify.

Yet again, he looked back at the crime scene. He could see Sherlock now, lounging against the wrought-iron railings of 223A, kicking his shoes in the gutter like a five-year-old.

"No. You... You mean you tried to pay me to watch your brother because you screwed up his life with your business?!"

"It's not completely my fault. He is quite..." he trailed off.

"Go on. Say it."

"I started dealing at fifteen. Imagine; private school, boys only: there were high expectations for every single on of us." John wasn't sure he wanted the entire story, but Mycroft's stoic speech was unrelenting, and John was afraid he'd already gone to far with such a dangerous man, so decided he should button it. "You can imagine why I did so well. I... I was young and stupid, and drugs gave me friends and cash- cash of my own, I mean. And Sherlock, of course, noticed." He opened his mouth to continue, then closed it, like a gormless goldfish. He was no longer looking directly at John, either- rather, over his head, into the middle distance. "Don't... I didn't protect him. You know him, John- he's lonely. I betrayed him, really. I daresay you know the rest," he finished quietly.

John could have argued with Mycroft. He could have verbally beaten him, make him feel guilty for luring Sherlock into danger and then just dumping him, leaving him with no dignity, no friends, and a huge debt. But that was where drugs got you. And he knew Mycroft regretted it, if not on the surface, because essentially hiring John was looking after him, even if Sherlock perhaps couldn't forgive Mycroft. Though John wasn't sure he could, either.

Yet, he just backed away. Slowly at first, reluctant, trying to think of something to say. But his mind was blank. So he continued to back away, not taking his eyes off the taller man, until eventually he had to turn his back.

He went to find Sherlock.

"Sherlock," he said breathlessly, even though he hadn't been running. Said man looked up, his face lifting into a little smile, even though John wasn't sure Sherlock was aware of doing it. John had hold of his coat sleeve, and he didn't know why. And they were close. So close that John could see the raw colour of his eyes and nose, and the individual tangles in his hair.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked smoothly, looking concerned.

"Yeah," John lied. He looked pointedly back at the police cars, and the lack of movement compared to before. "Look- can we get out of here?"


	21. The Window Seats

Trust Sherlock to know every single café that opened in the small hours before dawn. It really, John thought, pretty much summed up what his life consisted wholly of: in fact, it was the first time Sherlock seemed to fit his surroundings; sat there in the window, nursing his strong coffee between his skeletal fingers; rather than sticking out like he did so often everywhere else, with his height and fashion sense and unearthly expressions.

John watched him, heart fluttering a bit, wondering if he would do this often. No one stared at them like they usually did- there were about four other patrons scattered about the other tables- even though Sherlock's legs were stretched out underneath the table, him and his coat slouched, slightly ruffled, in the cheap wooden chair. There was a packaged sandwich in front of him, but he'd yet to touch it.

John toyed lightly with his outstretched feet under the table. Very lightly, so Sherlock didn't notice for a moment, just continuing to stare at the deep, prussian blue sky lightening outside of the window, with that faraway look on his face; until he suddenly diverted his gaze to John, who broke the ice with a small, but genuine, smile. One which Sherlock returned, with the edge of his lips curving up mischievously in that way they did.

John still wasn't sure where he stood- and not just on the relationship. Well, it sounded terrible that he was thinking about him and Sherlock and him and Richard in a period of crisis like this, but really, once he'd managed the Macbethian task of washing the blood off his hands, which had dried on his fingers since testing Phillimore's pulse, all that he was left with was a rage pertaining exclusively to Mycroft, and the resolute uneasiness that he, much unlike who he thought he was, had two seperate relationships on the go. Murder, at least for him, in the dreary light of the café, seemed like an urban myth; despite him having paid witness to similar acts before. It just seemed unreal that there had been a dead man on their doorstep less than a few hours ago. He'd buried it in the back of his mind, so that it became that it felt like something he'd seen on television, like the woman they had found at Laureston Gardens, whose name now escaped him.

"A penny for your thoughts?" He disturbed his own thoughts to ask Sherlock.

"What?"

"A penny for your thoughts. It's... It's a turn of phrase. Means what are you thinking 'bout," he hiccuped, tasting the sickly version of the shockingly milky tea he'd just downed his second cup of.

"Oh... Lots of things."

"Murderer?"

"Maybe." John couldn't help but feel that Sherlock was being purposefully ambiguous.

"Are you upset?"

"Upset?"

"About your client, I mean," John sighed, which did actually prompt a reaction, as his flatmate moved his hands up to rest underneath his chin, wearing a devious look.

"Upset that that it was him... no, not really," Sherlock said heavily, "He was... demanding. A rich city boy in need of a _plaything_ ," he enunciated the final word slowly, as if to put emphasis on it. "But I had a few clients turn me away after Jennifer Wilson- just imagine now..." In a fashion spectacularly unlike Sherlock Holmes, he trailed of, a hint of... fear?... creeping in at the edge of his wavering voice.

Initially, John felt strange at seeing a man he couldn't help feeling strongly for in distress, wanting, in some way or another, to comfort him; but Sherlock just wasn't the type. Then, he felt a wave of nausea come over him, quelling whatever it was he was going to do, as he thought about the way Sherlock exploited himself like that. He'd seen how he'd worked with Jennifer, so this James boy would have been the same? Sherlock had so much with all these different people, and yet John had nothing.

Since when was he such a lovesick schoolgirl anyway, he asked himself angrily, clenching his fists.

"This isn't the time," Sherlock snapped under his breath, and saw John had looked up in alarm. He exhaled, and looked out of the window.

"I... I'm sure it'll be OK, Sherlock. It's not as if people are really going to believe you're killing these people..."

"It's not that people think I'm going to slit their throat. It's that when they look for a prostitute- especially over an escort, like Irene's lot- it's because they want sex, their way, no strings attached. They are aware that it's in detriment to Lestrade and I if we were to get caught, so they're seldom worried about getting prosecuted for paying for sex," he spoke fast, and in a matter-of-fact manner, "However, a prostitute who has assasins of some sort hanging around him or her is too much of a risk, regardless of how good they might be."

There was a pause, in which Sherlock began to tap his foot.

"How was your date, then?"

"Just... Drop it, yeah?" John said irately. Sherlock looked a bit taken aback, and ever so slightly hurt, as he raised his eyebrows and tapped his foot faster under John's chair.

"So, you don't...?"

"Now isn't the time," John snapped, and instantly regretted it. He sighed. "Sorry. Look, I don't want to talk about the date." He thought for a moment, and decided he may as well be open with Sherlock if he wanted to trust him. "I talked to your brother."

"What?"

"By talked, I mean listening to him talk and trying not to punch him."

Sherlock giggled. John, however, straightened his face into seriousness.

"He told me about you. About... About how you got... here."

That wiped the amusement off Sherlock's face rather quickly. "And?" he muttered, leaning forward over the table, with a cautious sideway glance and the other customers.

"Nothing," John gulped. "I just thought you should know that I was aware of the circumstance."

"I don't want your pity."

"I know that. I just... well, it sounds stupid to say I understand, because I'm sure it would be naïve of me to say that. But, I guess, I can... empathise," he finished lamely, shuffling uncomfortably. Sherlock regarded him for a few seconds, then leant back again, touching his palms together and steepling his hands underneath his chin, like John realised he habitually did.

"'Mmkay. Do you trust me?"

"Of course. Well, when I know that you're not going to do something stupid like earlier." Sherlock grimaced. "But you're my flatmate. Flatmates should know the worst about each other," he grinned. Sherlock nodded in approval, and John noticed his pupils dilating.

"Mr Holmes?" came a voice from behind it, and the pair in the window looked up to see a man looking at Sherlock. At first, John had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, but upon closer inspection, he deemed it impossible that he could have somehow met this man before. He was dressed scruffily, with dreary olive-coloured skin and messy black hair tamed underneath a navy woollen hat. His nose was an unsightly salmon colour, too, so John figured he'd been outside for a while. Why? And why did he want to talk to Sherlock?

"Good morning Antonio. I pray you got what I asked for? That's for you, by the way," he nodded at the sandwich that John had forgotten was still lay on the table, as the man extracted a slip of lined A5 paper from the inside pocket of his duffel coat. The man picked up the sandwich, took the folded five pound note Sherlock held out for him, and scuttled out of the café just as quickly as he's appeared.

John waited until Sherlock had read the piece of paper, which took him about fifty seconds- though John could have sworn he read it twice, flashing John a cautious look between readings.

"Where did he come from?" John asked.

"London." John rolled his eyes. "London below."

"London Below?"

"As in, normally Oxford Circus station."

"You mean... Homeless?"

"The Baker Street Irregulars. Or Homeless Network. Sometimes also sex workers."

"And... Wha-"

"What do they do? Help. They have information."

"What, about James and Jennifer?"

"You could say so." He stowed the paper in his pocket.

"What did it say?"

"Nothing we didn't already know." John couldn't help but suspect he was lying.

"Are you sure?"

"Flatmates should know the worst about each other," Sherlock reflected, and John scowled. However, he wasn't given much time to pursue it further, as the dark-haired man sprung from his seat like a cat, downing most of his coffee and setting it on the table with deliberation.

"What time is it?" he asked solemnly. John consulted his watch.

"Nearly quarter to six," he said with despair. "Where are you going?"

"I need to pay Lestrade. I daresay you're welcome to come."

John's phone buzzed.

"Do you think the police will have gone from the flat?" he muttered, but Sherlock didn't answer; either because he didn't hear or he didn't know the answer. Possibly because he'd ignored it, though- this was Sherlock. "I'll probably go back and sleep. I think I have an interview later."

"Where?"

"There's a little surgery round the corner. I just want something to do during the day, that's all. You're OK with that...?"

"Fine. Fine." He paused. "Good luck."

And with that, he raised his eyebrows, and disappeared out of the café and into the dark street. Gone, like he'd never been there in the first place.

John stared at the two empty cups on the table, feeling empty. After being awake all night, too, he was knackered- yet somehow, he found himself heaving his body off the chair, and shrugged his jacket on.

Outside, the air was crisp. It was still pitch black, as it would be until at least half eight. There were only a few lights, spilling from a few shop windows, but no street lights, so as John picked his way down the pavement towards the tube station, he watched the ground carefully, looking up every now and again. He didn't see anyone as he went, except a woman running with headphones in, who ignored him as he stepped off the pavement to let her through.

There was a figure up ahead, which John only recognised as Sherlock when he darted into the light momentarily, tucked in his scarf and looking ever elegant in his long coat. The thing was, though, that if he wanted to see Lestrade, he would have taken a right to Euston station; and yet, he was carrying on past their, down in the shadows to the opposite end of the street. John's heartrate increased, and he began to speed his walking pace to catch up a bit more- not at all thinking through what he was doing.

As he followed, keeping a good distance behind, despite the almost pitch-black, his phone buzzed again. Sighing quietly, he took it out of his pocket and read the screen in short bursts, between watching his flatmate, before suddenly, he stopped. The texts were from Richard.

**Hey, I heard something happened at Baker St. Everything OK? RB**

**John? I'm worried. Please just let me know you're OK. RB**

John's initial thought was in regards to how Richard knew his address, but he ignored himself, telling himself that he must have mentioned it in passing and forgotten. Or, indeed, how the news had spread so quickly. Perhaps that was just the way the sex business worked- everyone was, as Sherlock had once explained, in it for themselves, so sabotaging business in the most insidious of ways, including drugs and often cold-blooded murder, wasn't exactly rare. At any rate, it was nice that Richard cared; and it brought John back to his senses about what he was involved in. He wasn't being entirely honest with Sherlock, so Sherlock, in return, would be permitted his privacy on whatever detour it was that he was taking.

John ran his hand through his hair as the screen backlight switched off, plunging him back into darkness. He knew that he should probably tell Richard that he wasn't interested, but that would be a lie. The same went for Sherlock. Each man one part of their own dark world: sex, drugs, money, slavery. Yet, in their own brilliant ways, they drew John in, irrisistable with their charm and vigour in a way that put them at opposite ends of the spectrum.

He should probably stay away from both of them, he told himself, turning away from Sherlock's pinprick of a figure down the opposite street and beginning to wander off towards the Tube station. Yet, no sooner had he thought it, he knew he couldn't leave. Nothing this interesting had happened in his life for a good while now: and he couldn't go back to living off an army pension, feeling sorry for himself.

Still though... Was there such thing as too much "interesting"?

"Get a fucking grip," he told himself, breath swirling hypnotically in white wisps in front of his face. He pressed a key on the phone so the backlight came back on, considered his reply, then tapped in his message with stiff fingers.

**I'm fine, and everything's sorted now. Tired. Will ring later. Thanks for last night. JW**

He hit send, not able to help but give a little grimace as Sherlock's smile popped into his mind's eye. Come to think of it, Sherlock never had kissed him again.

He began trudging his way back to Baker Street; deciding against taking the Tube, instead to be with his thoughts, wondering where it was that either of his love interests were, and what they were doing. God only knew what was coming for him...


	22. Deductions

John had had every intention to go to his interview at the practice round the corner that afternoon. Yet, in the most uncharacteristic fashion possible, he didn't.

When he'd returned to the flat, initially, he'd wanted to go to bed. Going to bed, after all, would mean he could slip into a quiet oblivion, and escape the constant chattering of his restless psyche, as it questioned and subsequently theorised about the events of the previous twenty-four hours, which were still bobbing stubbournly on the surface of his mind, like a dirty buoy on a polluted lake. He could rest his weary limbs too, and quell the heavy, dragging feeling on his eyelids.

However, life wasn't that simple. Having spent the time in his bed staring blankly up at the ceiling, as dawn crept ever so slowly across the cracked plaster, and being sorely reminded of the months he'd spent alone in his old flat (it felt like years since he'd left, even though some of the cardboard boxes which contained his souvenirs of life cluttered his peripheral vision)... So, as the hour turned seven, he rose like a zombie, shuffling despondently down the stairs and into the cold sitting room, where his mind turned to some sort of food, and he turned towards the kitchen.

That's where it had all gone wrong, he concluded, as he stared at the clock, which told him it was now coming up for seventeen-hundred hours. He'd seen the opened can of beer from the night before, and it had been like a beacon of light. He remembered how Sherlock had just been about to put those lovely lips of his to his own, when they'd been rudely interrupted by an actual murder. The police had gone now, leaving behind a scattering of cigarette butts on the front step. Really, John thought, how uncouth- and he picked up the can soporifically, sniffing the contents assiduously and then taking a swig. It was flat and still tasted awful, but he didn't care. It had been a long, long time since he'd used alcohol as a crutch; not since he'd been at high school, when he had his stint binge-drinking with the wrong crowd around the time of exams- and now was a good a time as ever to take advantage of the blissful ignorance that came with the evil wonders of cheap alcohol.

He'd not drunk much to start with, but his rate had increased as the morning became older, and by about 2pm, he'd he lucky to say a word without slurring. He sat slouched on the chair, his knee bent at an odd angle, just staring at the clock, watching the second hand tick round and round its sneering face.

He'd been thinking. Alcohol was wonderful, also, for helping a man to think straight. Or, at least, this is what John Watson thought, at that moment in time: that he'd laid his thoughts out like a puzzle, or a serpentine of black wires pulled from the drawers in his old hallway, that he'd meticulously untangled and laid out in rows, and then arranged them and re-arranged them, so he could pick them out in his sleep; and there was no way that he could get confused about any of them again.

Later, John would think much differently. He would again find himself in a state due to his recently asinine ways; only this time, it was less of a descent down a dark and slippery pathway than an actual fall; uncontrolled, terrifying, and with something sinister laying in wait for him when he finally reached the bottom. Naturally, though, as he revelled in his simple drunkenness, and partially associated myopia, he knew none of what was in store for him, nor did he consider it. He didn't consider alot, really, as once he had decided that he had untangled the knots of his life to a sufficient standard, he decided to abandon the notion of thinking and had resorted to mindlessly watching the clock.

The later John, in his pit of despair, would probably be able to pin the beginning of his descent on the moment Sherlock Holmes walked through the front door.

"John..." came the uneasy baritone from the doorway, and John looked up lazily. Sherlock was wearing the same clothes he'd been wandering around in last night, because, of course, he'd not had the oppurtunity to change (which it appeared he was raring to do, judging by how uncomfortable he looked). The same neat suit they'd interrogated Irene in, with the tie now pulled down, and creases culminating around the backs of his knees and at his elbows. And then there was the coat, and the Oxford-blue scarf that he now incessantly wore, as if it were a medal of high honour, or a token gift from a lover.

"You've been drinking," he pointed out, stepping into the room and closing the door as quietly as he could manage. The scent of alcohol hung in the air, like a thick, poisonous, yet colourless, fog.

"Yees. You bought the beeeeeer: sho I drank it," John justified.

"Did you go to your interview?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

"Sin-Since when... do you care?" John hiccuped, rolling angrily to the other side of the seat. There was a pause.

"You're my flatmate; of course I care."

"Just flatmate? Huuuuhh," John slurred, aware of the petty way he sounded.

"John, what's bought this on? Really, this isn't the time. Look... I've got something to tell you. Something..." he paused, possibly for dramatic effect, "Something about Richard."

John rolled back over, and sat upright, feeling woozy as he did so.

"How d'you 'bout Richard?" he spat. Sherlock moved closer.

"Look, John, it's not really something I feel it is suitable to discuss in your present state of mind."

"No," John was adamant, "You... brought it up," he hiccuped, "So go on. T'll me."

"I don't intend to. Please, tell me what it is you're mad at me about first," Sherlock's voice was an emotionless monotone, "And then we can sort out why it is that you got yourself in this state."

"As if you care."

"I do, as a matter of fact."

"I don't beli've you."

The conversation hit a brick wall, and for a minute, there was nothing but heavy silence buzzing in the room.

Movement came in the strangest, and beautifully reflective of ways, when John, much to Sherlock's surprise, hurled himself off the sofa and made his clumsy way quite hastily to the bathroom, where Sherlock winced as he heard the unmistakable sound of fluid hitting the toilet bowl. He stalked after him, if not a little reluctantly, before straightening up as he remembered how John had helped him on their very first night together.

John was slumped, eyes drooping, on the toilet, vomit dribbling unflatteringly down his chin, with splashes on his jumper too. He looked at Sherlock with a glazed scowl, as the other man rolled up his sleeves and gritted his teeth, bending elegantly at the knees and, gentlier than John thought Sherlock capable of, he lifted his flatmate into a more relaxed sitting position, where John exhaled heavily.

"'M never drinking 'gain," John moaned, barely opening his eyes. John could tell Sherlock had known that to be a classic line, but he said nothing, lest he rile John up again. He was leant against the pearly side of the sink, running his hands along the porcelain sheen of the basin and tapping his foot impatiently.

"You wander'd off th's morn'ng," John began, wiping his chin with a heavy arm. His skin was warm to the touch.

"I went to see Lestrade. I told you that." Sherlock's voice was carefully icy, as if he was purposefully restraining himself. When John considered this moment with hindsight, he would realise that that was exactly what Sherlock Holmes was doing.

"D'd you really, though, Sh'rlock?" John tried his best to wear an authoratitive frown, but his head was spinning, and he was having to control arbitrary spurts of anger which bubbled up inside him. He couldn't even remember why he was mad in the first place. He'd been thinking about Richard and Sherlock, and how he liked them, but now Sherlock was here, he wanted to punch him, really badly. He wanted to kiss him, too.

"What do you mean?"

"I..." John sighed, and rubbed his eyes. "'M not shtupid, Sherl'ck. I knooooow you went somewhere," he poked a finger lazily into Sherlock's chest, partially confrontationally, but Sherlock, much to John's surprise, took hold of it gently and pushed it away.

"It's for your own good," he said, his eyes half-closed. "John, you're being used. Richard is using you."

"Fuck you, Sherlock. How c'n you prove that? You're just jealous." John moved forward, not thinking, finding himself slumped over his flatmate as the two fell into the side of the sink. Had he not have been intoxicated, he would have found it mortally embarrasing, with anyone- especially Sherlock. However, with the tang of vomit biting at the back of his throat, and his head feeling as if it were wrapped in cotton wool, he couldn't quite contain himself.

"Prove it." He felt bold. He had the upper hand. He knew what was coming next. Sherlock, however...

"Fine." Sherlock's placid façade was slipping. "Can you get off?"

"Prove it." John was adamant.

"Well, I asked Lestrade-"

"No, not that. Prove that I should choose you over Richard."

"What? John, listen to me. This isn't a relationship you're putting at risk- it's your life. If I'm right, which I tend to be, then Richard isn't who he says he is- in fact, he's not even an escort, Lestrade knows. He's been feeding you lies, he's been feeding everyone else lies so that he can't he traced, and God knows why he wanted my clients, but now he wants you. Do you want to be dead on our doorstep?"

"You can't prove any of that. Stop being jealous."

"Jealous? John, I followed you, on your "date". He had a white wine spritzer, right? And he took you to that chip-shop you like? Well, maybe if you did a bit of flicking around on the internet, you might realise that all of that information is on your blog. The one you wrote. You see? He was buttering you up. So eager to take you out for drinks after a fleeting meeting... in a hallway, was it? How do you think he got there? Chance? Or he tracked us? How do you think he knows who I am? Because he's certainly not an escort nor a prostitute, and Irene Adler has nothing to do with him or the murders, Lestrade told me. Did you notice if the conversation was based more around you? Or did you talk about me? Didn't you find it odd that he left so suddenly?"

"How dare you... foll'w me," John snarled, "And pin those accusations on Richard. So what if he did a bit if research on me? He want'd t'please me, j'sst a bit, make my night enjoy'ble, which is more th'n I c'n say about you. An' why should I trust Lestrade? What, t'give you the idea that Richard kill'd your clients? You're... You're... You're a psychopath."

"John, listen to me, I'm not jealous at all, I'm trying to..."

He trailed off, as if giving up completely, and slumped back onto the floor, staring up at John with sad eyes.

"See. You are."

"I can't reason with you now," Sherlock spat, surprisingly bitter. John was taken aback, but still angry, so he clumsily clambered off Sherlock and stood up, swaying like a branch in a gale. There was a moment, then, when John glowered at Sherlock, who was still flat-out of the floor, like a corpse, gazing warily up at him, waiting to see what he did next.

Which was, in fact, to storm out.

"John!" Sherlock sprung up, clutching at the sink for support, and skidding his skinny frame into the shadowy hallway. John had hold of his coat, and was in the process of stuffing his arms into the sleeves when Sherlock caught hold of the material.

"Please," he begged.

"I'm going to see Richard. 'M sick of you, Sherlock. You drive me fucking insane."


	23. Mystérieux et Dangereux

When John awoke, late, he started his day with little more than a grimace. He could have described the pain radiating through his entire body as being like death warmed up, but he was far too hot for that- overly hot, so it was more hell cooled ever-so-slightly down. For a while (it could have been anywhere between three and fifteen minutes) he simply lay still, on his back, eyes closed as he counted his aches and pains. The thumping headache, the stiff shoulder, the churning stomach and the bitter, acidic taste in his mouth.

He wanted to stay there all day, wherever it was, but it was hot beneath the covers. However, just as he was finishing in counting all his physical woes, he became more and more aware of reality, and his surroundings, like the firm mattress beneath his scapulae, and the covers hugging his semi-naked body. Wait... The covers? He didn't remember getting into bed...

Slowly, as so not to alarm himself with the small amount of light streaming in through the cracks in the curtains, John opened his eyes, rubbing gunk from them as he did so. What he found when he did, however, was beyond what he'd imagined.

For one thing, he'd at least expected to be at the flat, probably in his own bed, but possibly having fallen onto the sofa or even Sherlock's bed. Because... God, he thought as he nursed his head, he'd been so very drunk... Perhaps that was why he had absolutely no idea where he was.

It was a dark room, which was nice. The only light was the large skylight, above the end of the bed, where a pair of heavy curtains had been pinned-up at both ends, in order to efficiently block the persistent sort of grey brightness outside. As he looked around, he came to the conclusion that he was in a bedroom, as opposed to a hotel room; there were heavy-looking pieces of wooden furniture, and a white t-shirt strewn across the floor.

Which led him to look to his left, where, it dawned on him, there was a weight on the mattress, next to his elbow.

It was Richard, gazing intently up at him.

"Oh my god," John yelped, as he scrambled out of the bed. Richard sat up, somewhat alarmed, which is the moment that John decided that getting out of bed had been an altogether stupid idea- not only because he felt as if he was going to throw up, but because he was merely wearing his shirt from yesterday, and his underpants.

"Red," Richard muttered, though he didn't blush.

"What... What are you doing here?" John asked, frantically picking up the pillow he'd only moments ago been resting his head so comfortably on, in order to retain even a fraction of his common decency.

"You wake up in the bed of a man you've been on one date with, and that's the question you ask?" Richard giggled, "Really, John. I live here."

John did a double-take, firstly unable to believe his ears, and then cringed, at how ridiculously cliché this was. He knew he'd argued with Sherlock- god knows what over, but it was obvious he'd left 221B (probably angrily) and come to Richard off his head...

"God... What did we do?" John asked, trying to keep the sheer disgust and self-loathing from his voice, and failing miserably. His stomach growled in answer, and he bit his lip, hard.

"Nothing, nothing; really, John, you underestimate me, I wouldn't have taken advantage of you in the state you were in. Look, get back into bed, you look positively green. I'll get breakfast."

"No, I don't think I can handle..." John began, but Richard has already torn back the covers, leapt out of bed and strutted out of the bedroom door. Seeing the relative neatness of the covers, and the lack of any kind of evidence anywhere in the room of any roughness, John felt his panic lessen. He could take his consideration of the previous night down a notch- it hadn't been a drunken one-night-stand. Yet, there was still a lot of explaining left to be done.

John looked at the door through which Richard had waltzed for breakfast, and crept over to it, the worn carpet beneath his feet feeling alien. He desperately wanted to leave. The room was stuffy and suffocating, and he couldn't help but wonder how long Richard had just been watching him like that...

He shrank away from the door as he head plates clattering about, which was when he spotted his clothes from the previous night folded neatly on top of a chest of drawers. Sighing gratefully, he slipped on his trousers, though stopping midway, as he thought he was about to be sick. However, he managed to get dressed, without keeling over, and sat down on the bed to check his phone when Richard came back in.

"I made toast," he grinned sheepishly, holding a cheap-looking cream tray, with, true to his word, two plates of toast, a pot of tea, and an orange juice, along with a range of confitures.

"Um... Thank you," John felt inclined to say.

"Oh, you got dressed. You can stay, you know, I have nothing to do all day."

"I really should be getting back, Sherlock-"

"That's not what you said last night," Richard snapped, and John was startled, his heart skipping a beat and making him feel momentarily void. And yet, then, everything was back to normal, Richard's brown eyes becoming warm and sparkly again as he handed John his plate.

"About last night..."

"Please don't say it was a mistake."

"I wasn't going to," John frowned. "Well, it was, in that I got drunk... Drunker than I ever want to get. God, last time I was that off it, I must have been about 17, and I ki- nevermind," John blushed. Something about Richard's presence made him say more than he normally did- like he needed to explain himself, or seem interesting, so he wouldn't lose interest. John noted that his current intentions were the exact opposite of this, and wondered why he was doing it all the same.

He took a feeble bite of his toast, and swallowed. It made his mouth taste nicer, but he couldn't evade the feeling that it was just going to make him feel ill in the long run. He supposed, it could have been worse; it could have been bacon, or anything else fried, or that came out of something like the pan that was still sitting in his and Sherlock's kitchen sink. He felt he ought to eat his breakfast without complaint. Etiquette.

"So... What happened last night?"

"You and Sherlock," Richard said through a mouthful of toast, "Had an argument, and you came round here. Well, after texting me, obviously."

Texts. John looked at his phone: he had six.

**John? I'm sorry, please come back. SH**

**John? SH**

**I take it all back, I was wrong SH**

**And stupid. SH**

**John come home it's dangerous SH**

**John, hi, it's Molly here. Remember? Sherlock just texted me to tell you that you should go home. Sherlock just means the best for people, in his own way. Whatever it is, I'm sure it'll be better if you talked it over :)**

"So you could get my address, and try to break the door down," Richard continued, and John put his phone away, feeling strange to reply to Sherlock when Richard was there.

"Oh. That explains my shoulder," John muttered.

"Probably. You were really angry."

"I didn't say... or do anything, did I?" John looked up, to see Richard shrugging.

"No. I wouldn't blame you, though, for being mad; you had the right to be."

"What did I tell you?"

"Oh, everything. About how Sherlock was jealous of us-"

Damn. He'd given everything away. Not that Richard knowing was a bad thing; it didn't mean anything, and he could probably give some pretty sound advice, but John just hadn't considered it necessary for him to know... After all, it was between him and Sherlock, and he didn't want to have Richard being jealous. Or in the firing line of this murderer, he reminded himself, a chill running down his neck.

"How he thought I was your murderer chap, all sorts. Really, John, if he gets to you, I've got space here."

"No," John replied, a bit too suddenly. He looked guiltily at his toast. "I mean... He doesn't get to me. Not... Not really."

"Not really? You must have yelled for at least an hour before passing out. All this stuff about how he couldn't make his mind up about whether or not he was interested in you. Why should you be treated like that?" Richard leant over and planted a kiss on John's forehead- an action to which John couldn't help but smile, despite the uncomfortable feeling that he'd given too much away. Sherlock never made him feel like that- wanted. Not much, anyway; there were, for example, the times that John caught Sherlock just watching him, the time he'd tried to defend John from a knife, and the times in the poky bathroom when they shared... something. And there were those kisses: even the one that was a mistake, down at the station.

The problem was, John thought as he stared into the middle distance, compared to all the things Sherlock had done that were completely arsehole-ish, the little wonderful moments seemed obscure. If John wanted to, he could justify his drunkeness by pointing out to Sherlock how he'd gotten himself drugged, how he never told him anything, how he'd dragged John into some kind of circle of surreal murders.

If only he'd never mentioned his troubles to Mike Stamford.

"The thing about prostitutes is," Richard said, lying back and beckoning John to do the same, "And, of course, when I say this, I'm not trying to make your Sherlock the bad guy, it's just fact, y'know?" He wiped a greasy finger on his t-shirt, which made John wonder how Sherlock had ever thought Richard to be dangerous, "Prostitutes have a different relationship every evening. Of course, they say it's all professional, but they're only human... And then, with Sherlock's debt, he-"

"Wait. How do you know... Oh shit," John interrupted. He must have let that slip the previous evening, too.

"It's fine. I'm not judging," Richard held his hands up in mock surrender. "I'm just trying to say that they have less of a grip of human emotions beyond just sexual pleasure. So I don't want you getting hurt. Someone was murdered on your doorstep, for chrissake. Come and stay here if you need to."

"I'm fine where I am." John mumbled, and fell silent, toying with his toast.

"OK. The offer remains open, though. Tea?"

As Richard poured John a strong, milky tea (just the way he liked it), Richard's phone buzzed on the bedside table.

"Someone's keen," John remarked, noting the "7 Unread Messages" notification on the screen.

"Business as usual. Though, I could say the same about you."

"Hm. 'S just Sherlock being sorry. The last one was sent about six hours ago, so he can't be that bothered."

Richard gave him a look he couldn't identify, before turning his phone over so the screen was hidden, and sipping at his tea daintily, smiling.

\----------------------------------

John relished the fresh London air as it filled his lungs. Lunchtime traffic clamoured in his ears, strangely clearing his hangover headache, rather than making it worse; though, unfortunately, the stomach pains remained. In an effort to escape the hustle and bustle concomitant to living in the cesspit of business and murder that was London, he closed his eyes, heavy lids over tired looks, and stopped. Right there, in the middle of the street. He needed to let himself gather his thoughts.

He would go back to 221B, and sort things out then. Tell Sherlock not to mess him around if he wanted a chance over Richard. Stop telling stories, stop being an arse, that sort of thing; because, essentially, John still liked him. Then he would ring the surgery, and apologise profusely for his no-show at the interview, and beg for a second chance himself, so he could at least stop dipping into his army pension while he was still viable to work. Also, he would check the flat's security, as well as Ms Hudson's flat, so there was less chance of a murderer being able to come for the any of them. It was worth a try, anyway. He would invite Molly for dinner, and allow her to talk to him, because he thought she needed someone, and that was most certainly worth a try. Then...

Well, that was mostly it, he told himself, pleased with his sudden productivity. Ever since he'd moved in with Sherlock, and he'd been exposed to a whole new dimension of deceit and ownership, where sex and murder seemed to be some kind of currency, and no one was really sure what the police were for (no one had yet to tell John what had been determined about Jennifer or James), he'd simply become caught up, and perhaps, he considered, he'd been lost up in it somewhere. Sherlock had done him a favour in bringing him back out from his shell.

Now it was his chance to make something of himself.

He opened his eyes again, and everything was new and bright. John squinted against the stark winter sunlight, letting the noise and the pollution and the crowds fill his senses.

That's when he saw a headline, plastered across the front of the Mail on a stand on the corner.

**LAURESTON GARDENS AND BAKER ST: BOTH SUICIDES, SAY YARD**

He wandered casually over, so not to attract the attention of the storeowner, who was picking his nails and staring at a pair of pigeons quibbling over a slice of pasty on the pavement. He picked the paper up, noting how the tabloids read a similar, if not factually ambiguous, story. Heart pumping, with one hand toying with his phone in his pocket, he began to scan the article.

_"Early this morning, DI Tobias Gregson of Scotland Yard announced to a press conference that the recent killings at 3, Laureston Gardens, and on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street were two completely unrelated suicides, not serial murders, as the Yard's initial investigation was looking into._

_"We've done a thorough investigation into all the leads we've been given," the detective-inspector told reporters at an 8am meeting in the Yard's largest conference room, and declined to comment furthur. It is understood that both cases have been closed, despite recently-promoted Gregson having only picked early yesterday morning, after it occurred at approximately 21:34 the previous evening."_

John dropped the paper as if it had burnt him, startled by the fact his phone had begun to ring in his pocket, and that the noise meant people passing, and the stallowner, were observing him as he fumbled to answer the call.

"John. Where are you?"

John pulled the phone away from his ear to check the caller identity.

" _Mycroft?!_ " he hissed.

"Don't hang up, John, this is important, and I figured you'd prefer it over being picked up from that corner in an ominous car."

"I thought you were asking where I was?" John muttered.

"It was rhetorical; I have eyes and ears everywhere. It's a perk of the job," he drawled, losing the urgency in his tone momentarily to give himself a small chance to gloat to John, before turning back to the matter at hand. "Put the newspaper down and begin to walk down that street on your left. No- don't look around, you don't want to attract attention. Don't say anything, don't hang up, just listen to me, it's for your own good. You've just read the article in today's _Mail_?"

"The important bits, yes," John mumbled. "Why are you ringing me, not Sherlock?"

"He's not answering his phone. Don't believe everything you read, John. I may not have detectives, but I have men on the inside. You know they're murders, John; it's impossible for them not to be, and the police don't know the connection with Sherlock, remember. The thing is, John, that they'll be watching you and Sherlock- turn right- yours and Sherlock's every move, and it's better that you get back to Baker Street as soon as possible. Wait there."

John stopped, confused, trying to swallow the information. For a while, he had had an overwhelming sense of relief that he wasn't actually being watched, as any kind of victim, but now Mycroft was talking so smoothly, and with such urgency and an eerie sense of co-operation that was miles from his wont, that John couldn't help but feel a chill of fear sparking in his neurones.


	24. Ludus

As the taxi pulled up on the kerb outside 221B, John felt his heart sink into his stomach. He had spotted a small figure slumped in the cold shadow of the doorway, facing away from the road; faceless and foreboding. Another dead body? Or Sherlock? Or _both_?

Anthea didn't notice. She didn't even look up from her phone as she said, "Mr Holmes will be calling in later."

John didn't bade her goodbye. Nervously, he thanked the cabbie, and stumbled out onto the street, taking the utmost care not to take his eye off the figure, lest it be a trap. Alas, as the cab moved away, it stirred, and his whole body stiffened as the head turned towards him.

"Happy Advent, John," Molly said wearily, blinking up at him from beneath a fur-lined hood.

"Advent?" John blurted, as Molly arose from the floor and dusted herself off, and took the hood down so her auburn hair could cascade down her back.

John was still frozen to the spot; partially terrified, heart pounding with adrenaline, but inwardly, he was also kicking himself for panicking so easily.

"Well, yeah. The date." When she noted his blank face, she added, "First of December!" with a sad, innocent smile.

"Yeah..." John breathed, before pulling himself together and looking up at the windows of his flat. "Molly, I don't mean to he rude, but what are you doing here?"

"I... Um... I needed to come and see you and Sherlock. I heard talk, that's all, and I figured I'd not seen him for a while," she said, biting her lip nervously, fingering the hem of her sleeve, where a loose thread of cotton twined between her purple-hued digits.

She was dressed more for the weather today, John noted; wearing black sheen tights under a large, sorry-looking coat- though he could only avoid guessing how little she had on underneath it. He considered asking her if she wanted a jumper when they got inside, taking into account her washed-out complexion and gaunt cheeks, but he might embarrass her.

Surely she had such clothes of her own? He was pretty sure Sherlock didn't always wear tight suits. There was that battered old dressing-gown, for a start.

And, while on the subject of his flatmate...

"So... Isn't he in?" John stepped towards her, fumbling for his keys blindly whilst observing her body language intently. She didn't appear to be hiding anything, so this meeting was as obscure to her as it was to him, he supposed.

"No. At least, I don't think so. It's locked, I've tried knocking and I've tried his phone. Did you... um... sort out that thing?"

"What?"

"Y'know, last night, with-"

"Oh, uh... No. I-"

"Should I leave?" Molly stepped back, and John shook his head frantically.

"No, no. He's not even in, and it won't do you any good wandering around London... in the cold," he added hastily, as so not to startle Molly. God knows, he thought, no one told Molly anything important normally, so why would Mycroft bother stooping to tell her there was a possibility she'd be murdered?

John shivered at the thought of Molly's corpse- all twisted limbs and glassy eyes; the sorrowful sight of a young girl forgotten by society.

There was another niggling feeling in the back of John's mind- a sort of metaphysical sixth sense that he couldn't decipher into any sort of action or speech, other than slipping listlessly past Molly, and fumbling his key into the lock.

"Do you think it will be OK?" Molly held his sleeve now, as he pushed the door open into a familiar shadowy hallway. I was then that John noticed his cane on the hat stand, standing proudly to the left of the door like an obsequious and scrawny butler. He blinked twice at it, wondering how it came that his cane hung there, before forgetting the matter and turning back to Molly, trying his best to be reassuring as he spoke.

"There's only one way to find out, isn't there? Follow behind me."

They ascended the stairs slowly, and as quietly as possible- John taking his time to ease each foot onto each stair, flexing the sole of his shoe experimentally before transferring his weight. However, it had taken him near three minutes to get to the landing, and he realised that if there was someone in the flat, they would have seen them outside, and would be lying in wait for their chance to ambush the pair.

"John?" Molly mouthed, surprisingly making no noise whatsoever.

John looked away, took a deep breath, and lowered his chin. He could feel Molly watching him, wondering whag was going on, but, before she could ask, he leapt from the landing, taking the remaining stairs on two at a time, and bursting into the living room with a bang. No one jumped out at him, and he began to look around frantically, exhaustfully delaying the realisation that the flat was, strangely, secure.

"John?" came a cry, and John straightened up, heart pounding.

"It's safe, you can come up!" he called down, and there was a lethargic clunking as Molly ascended the stairs entered the living room.

"I know something strange is going on. I mean, wasn't that Sherlock's brother? I know what Sherlock thinks of him, I'm not stupid," she shook her head nervously, "Please, John, tell me what's going on...?"

"Look, I can't really; I don't even get it myself. I was just told that Mycroft knows that those deaths were murders, and that I should come back to the flat. You can stay here..." he began to wander up and down the room, pacing furiously, checking surfaces for clues, "Where is Sherlock? Why... Why isn't he answering his phone...?"

"Maybe he forgot it?"

"Maybe." John stopped, and whipped his phone from his pocket. "Um..." he said, and pressed the speed-dial 7 to start calling Sherlock's mobile.

They were dead still, John not daring to breathe as he listened to the flat creaking and sighing in the December breeze. But no phone, not anywhere. No ringtone, no buzzing. And the call didn't connect this time again either.

John hung up, and his phone began ringing.

"Hello?" he answered it, not pausing to look at the caller ID. He beckoned for Molly to take a seat on the chair, which she did nervously, perching on the edge and hugging her coat close to her skinny frame.

"John. Made-up friends with my little brother yet?"

"No. He's not here. He's..." John's eye caught on something hanging on the back of the door. "He's... He's forgotten his scarf," John breathed. That was it.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"He's forgotten his scarf," John repeated, reaching out and touching the soft knit of the garment. It was icy cold to the touch, and John brought his hand away quickly. "I got him a scarf recently, and he wears it all the time- why would he go without it?" Molly arose from her seat, clasping her hands together, meeting John's gaze with a worried one of her own.

"I fear the answer may be in the question, John. _You_ got it for him, and his is sulking with _you_."

"How do you know he's sul- oh, nevermind. No, why would he go without a scarf? He's your brother, you must know how goddamn skinny he is, he freezes without it and it's the first bloody day of December! Something's wrong, Mycroft. What is it you're not telling me?!"

"Nothing, John," Mycroft dead-panned. And, this once, John believed him.

"John, calm down, please," Molly begged upon seeing his face contort with emotion- fear, wrath, frustration, worry... and determination.

He was sick of Mycroft. He'd loathed his very presence since the moment he met him, at 3AM, with his drugs money and superiority: and John wasn't in the mood to stand for it any longer.

"Then I'm not going to sit around here and do nothing! I thought you knew what was going on, Mycroft, but your brother's missing and you have no clue where he is. What happened to knowing everything? I see now why you needed me to watch him. And what, you sent me back here so you didn't have to waste your time keeping track of us while you got your dirty workers on the case? Well, I've had enough, Mycroft- for once, I can't just sit around and wait for you to give me an order. You've screwed up before, and you can just as easily do it again- except I'm not going to let Sherlock be the one that loses out this time- because if he does, it's his life that he loses this time."

"You don't understand, John- you're the probl-"

"I don't want to hear it. Look, I'm going to look for Sherlock. Don't call me unless you've found him."

He stabbed the button to terminate the call, and exhaled heavily.

"John...? What's going on?"

"I'm going out again. I need to find Sherlock- any idea where he goes when he's in a rush.. or..." he left his sentence hanging, instead swallowing the words stubbournly, refusing to admit the possibility aloud.

"We could try Lestrade's."

"Can't you ring him?"

"He wasn't picking up- but that's normal for him, and he won't give us the client number in case we report him."

"OK then. Give me a minute... Wait, do you want anything? Food, jumper?"

"I'm fine," she replied forlornly, looking lost in John's flurry of activity.

He raced upstairs, picking up his gun in case things got messy, and looked around as the crumpled sheets and half-unpacked boxes littering his room. He felt a twinge of guilt at how he'd left things with Sherlock, now faced with the possibility that he might mever see him again. What had gotten into him? He'd cared once.

He came back down the stairs and into the living room, and found Molly still waiting anxiously by the door. He could have felt further than from how she looked; standing up to Mycroft had given him a new lease of life- he felt bold and empowered, forcing problems between him and Sherlock and Richard to the back of his mind, and focusing on his only target for the next few hours- finding Sherlock, and returning him to the flat, alive. Or perhaps somewhere safer- though they would cross that bridge when they came to it.

"Are you coming?" John asked Molly, and he didn't question her as she nodded solidly; instead taking the lead back down the stairs.

"Ms Hudson!" he yelled when he reached the bottom. There was no reply- just the creaking of the floorboard beneath the worn sole of his shoe as he crossed to the delicate table near the door, on which Ms Hudson kept a tear out memo pad. He took up the pen, and, under Molly's watchful eye, scrawled out a note.

**Ms Hudson- Sherlock missing, gone out to find him. If not back by 10pm, please ring police. JHW**

"Is she going to see that?" Molly asked as he left the note at the top of the pad.

"It'll be fine," John gritted his teeth, rubbing his eyes for a moment. Then, with a fiery will roaring in the pit of his stomach, he marched out of the front door, squinting in the sun, and walked straight to a cab on his left, letting a tourist in a cap out onto the pavement. John ducked into the cab.

"Can you take us to North Kensington?"

"Sure," the driver said, sounding bored, and so John doubled-back to help Molly in, before following and settling into the back of the taxi.

They pulled off into the flow of traffic, driving slowly, much to John's irritation. He jiggled his knee with impatience, checking out the windows; checking that neither Mycroft or Anthea weren't following them.

The taxi turned down York Street, where the traffic lessened- except it pulled in and stopped.

John, being distracted, as well as being used to moving in the traffic, didn't realise something was wrong until it was too late. The door on the pedestrian side of the taxi was flung open, and into the taxi leapt a tourist in a baseball cap, and a businessman in a neatly-tailored suit. John's heart sank as he saw the flash of a sleek gun barrel, and the devious grin of none other than Sebastian Moran, peeking out from beneath the hat. John, upon gathering his wits, grabbed Molly and lunged desperately for the opposite door, but the taxi jerked of into the traffic at the same time that Sebastian reached out and grabbed John's jacket, and he was flung back into his seat with a strangled gasp.

To his left, Molly was already slumped, limp, against the window, the businessman holding a dirty rag in his hand. Cloroform? Yet, he didn't have time to protest- as Sebastian leapt on him, forcing his knees into his sides and straddling him.

John lashed out, trying desperately to fight free, but Sebastian had a number of advantages, and already, John's mind was whirring with doubts- even if he used his gun, he'd have to take a limp Molly from a moving taxi, and he couldn't run forever. Not to mention, now, the businessman was grappling to force the rag to his nose. He resisted there too, as well has he could when he was pinned against a leather seat, but Sebastian stopped both of them, and the kerfuffle stopped.

"Hello, John. Remember me?" he said. "I'll take it from here," he said, turning to his companion.

The last thing John remembered was a hand pulling back, poised, and then rushing forward at what felt like slow-motion, before a horrendous pain cracked across his temples and his vision became clouded. Noises and shapes became one. He forgot that he was in a taxi with Sebastian and Molly, and let his mind rest, consciousness floating off into a dark, cloudy sky.


	25. The Final Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, yes. I think we all knew who Richard was, because you're supposed to. Idk why the plot is a bit see-through there- I supposr I'm running parralels a bit. Tbh, I'm not a great writer. The characterisations are lazy, and John is OOC- which works in some ways, being an AU, but in others, I expect it's frustrating.
> 
> I nearly had John and Molly returning back to Irene, and being caught out there, but when I was writing it, I realised that this would be pulling the plot out a bit, just to see Irene again- who's equally as bland in this as she is in the BBC version (and still relatively one-dimensional in canon, if I may say so, but then ACD was Victorian, so it's only expected), but bland in a different way- the extra part just would have made it clear that she is actually a rather straight-edge woman here, with a dominatrix façade. I didn't want to sentimentalise her part, either- I'm not Steven bloody Spielberg.
> 
> And I never did get Anderson in. I didn't want to force that, either- it was hard enough getting Sally to make two appearances, and Lestrade was more of a hear-say character (so not directly in the plot).

When John awoke, he was angry. He was angry even before he realised that he was coming around, and that the last moments before the enveloping blackness rushed back to him and made him grimace. Then he squirmed, which made him grimace some more.

Something wasn't right at all.

His eyes snapped open, and he was surprised to find himself in relative darkness. There was a dirty lamp above his head, then another about twenty metres away, and another after that; all connected by a ceiling of a grid of painted concrete beams. There were similarly fashioned pillars, too, all meeting the hard ground with a layer of dirt creeping up their sides. The ground had lines painted on it, clinically straight; and their were no windows between him and the rest of London over to his right. Hence, despite the lack of cars, it became obvious to him that he was in a multi-story car park.

And that wasn't the least of it. To add to the obscurity of his situation, as well as his somewhat insidious location, he found he was tied to a chair, at both his ankles, and with his wrists bound tightly with cord behind his back. What on earth was this? He had no idea people still did such a thing, let alone in London; was he a hostage now? What for- these murders? Was he under the power of the people Mycroft had been warning him about?

His whole body ached. He could feel something heavy and metallic tasting crusting around his nose- probably dried blood; and there were numerous aches and pains, including in his temples, were he could only assume Sebastian and the other man had struck him.

What about Molly? He looked around for a sign of her wherabouts, and was wholly surprised to find her out cold, in a chair to his left, in a similar position to him, except he wasn't gagged. He wondered why he hadn't noticed her more quickly- she wasn't making a sound, he supposed. She was more scantily clad than before: the men must have removed her coat, John thought, and ground his teeth with hatred, and frustration that there was nothing he could think of doing to help either of them, even though it was his fault they were there in the first place. He vaguely remembered Sherlock warning him about travelling in taxis, let alone the first one he came across. When he got the chance, he thought, he would track whoever did this down, and make them pay for prying on Molly- especially as Sebastian had already assaulted her. No woman should be subjected to that sort of behaviour, in all its misogynistic, perverse, and inhumane scumbaggery.

John jumped as there was the sudden sound of a door being thrown open out of sight on the next level, over to his left, which was connected by a gently slanted ramp. He winced as the cords at his wrist dug painfully into his flesh, probably carving out some skin while it was at it, but soon froze, as he realised there were footsteps coming from where the door had opened, in his and Molly's direction.

He didn't need to be a genius, or even ridiculously street-smart like Sherlock or Lestrade, to know that whoever was coming to see them would not be a welcome sight. Sebastian, perhaps, or the other man? Or, Lestrade had said someone was in charge of those two- perhaps Irene? He'd never properly considered her as someone like that, not really- he couldn't place his finger on why- but she had drugged Sherlock, so it wasn't as if she wasn't capable of disregarding the rules. Part of him hoped it was someone who knew what was going on. Sebastian and the other man would only have the powers to make John and Molly more uncomfortable, but someone in charge might be willing to offer some answers, even if it meant getting into more danger. Because, at the moment, nothing made any sense.

The steps were getting closer now, and John squinted at the corner of the ramp, desperate to see what he was up against. They sounded like men's dress shoes, rather than anything worn by a woman, but he couldn't quite tell.

After a few moments, the footsteps stopped.

There was a pause.

Then, without warning, a figure stepped out of the shadows.

It was Sherlock.

"Sher...?" Thoughts and emotions exploded in John's mind. Upon initial recognition, he felt positively euphoric; thinking himself saved, but the relief was short-lived. Sherlock's expression was stony and impassive; not one of someone who had just discovered his two friends tied up in a car park with no-one around.

And that's when John began to feel angry. It wasn't justified anger- he was reminded of the previous night, and what Sherlock had said about Richard- but that wasn't his main reason for being angry. He would have instantly forgiven him if he'd found Sherlock in the situation John and Molly were in now. No; the reason John found himself bubbling over with rage, was that cold, expressionless face of his. One would think Sherlock didn't even recognise him. And John could only wonder...

"Sherlock... Do... you m-mean that you were behind all this? What, you killed your own clients? And what about me and Molly... what...!"

He didn't answer, beginning walking towards them.

As Sherlock approached, John spotted something suspect when Sherlock's coat moved in with his gait. At first, he thought it was just the shadows playing a trick on him, but he realised, that Sherlock's chest, collar and neck were blossoming with bruises in purple, yellow and black, and a bloody cut grazing his impossible cheekbones. Once John'd seen that, then, he could see how Sherlock held his right hand in a tight fist, how his hair was dishevelled, and how he walked with the slightest of limps. And John's perpective changed. Sherlock's expression suddenly became more despondent, fearful and reserved, rather that calculating.

John's anger soon began to fall away, as Sherlock came to a halt about two metres in front of him. Sherlock was still Sherlock- and John had been expecting something to be wrong, what with Sherlock not answering his phone and leaving his scarf behind; and something still was. Terribly, terribly twisted. But John believed in his flatmate, despite how much of an arse he could be on occasion.

"This is a turn-out, isn't it, John?" Sherlock said, his dulcet tones echoing around the car park, with his visage remaining hauntingly expressionless.

"Sherlock..." he breathed. He'd never been in a situation like this- not even in Afghanistan. Out there, there had been a relatively clear-cut line between good and evil. No one had ever captured his friend and turned him against him. He'd heard of similar things, but they were irrelevant. It had never happened to him.

Molly stirred beside him.

"Sherlock, tell me what's going on. I know this isn't you," John decided it was best to talk- to stay calm in the face of danger, like the soldier he'd been neglecting recently. "I'm sorry for how I acted last night- you didn't deserve that, and I think we should probably just forget what happened. And... just, nothing happened between Richard and I, it was just a ridiculous threat... Please understand that. Sherlock?"

The taller man was silent, gulping as he met John's eyes. John could see it now- Sherlock's eyes were begging for John's understanding, shimmering with pain and caught between two things. Someone was controlling Sherlock, but from where? He wasn't wearing an earpiece, not could he see anyone if he craned his neck to see behind him. But assumably they had control of him in some way, other than those physical damages, that stopped him from un-tying John and Molly and running. Perhaps Sebastian was hidden in the shadows? Or Sebastian's mysterious master?

As if to answer his question, Sherlock slowly moved his arm, where his hand was in his pocket, so his coat moved ever so slightly to reveal what was strapped to his chest.

A jumble of serpentine wires, and foil-wrapped bundles, glinting in the gloom- enough Semtex to not only take out Sherlock, but John and Molly, and half of the building.

John's chest tightened, as Sherlock moved his arm back to settle his coat back over the equipment, as if it didn't even exist.

Suddenly, a door behind John opened with an enormous boom, thrown against the wall with force. There were another set of footsteps- lighter, this time, and more skipping than walking.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, that's not how we said it was going to go, hm?"

John turned around.

"Oh, hello there, Johnny!" Richard grinned, his eyes glinting. John didn't answer. His head had just exploded with thoughts again- Sherlock had been right all along, Richard was dangerous. John hadn't listened... God, and he'd woken up in the same bed as this guy only that morning! He'd turned against Sherlock, and now Sherlock was the one parcelled-up with explosives. What had he done...?

"No need to look so shocked, John," Richard purred, as he circled around to stand with Sherlock, on whom a small red light had appeared; like a laser, aiming for his chest.

"Yo-you?" John choked at Richard. Richard smiled serenely.

"Yes, me. Hello!" he said, the Irish accent John had once found appealing ringing in his ears.

"You're in charge of this... this...!" John spat, and Richard simply skipped up to Sherlock and wound himself around the man's arm.

"It took you long enough, Johnny. Sherlock worked it out after the second murder, but you didn't believe him when he told you. Oooohhh deeeeeear. Trust issues, John."

Not only did John feel as if he had let Sherlock down, but now, as he looked Richard up and down, he felt the betrayal of a broken relationship- the lies, and the fact that John had invested his exploration of his bisexuality into a man who was lying to him... Was...

"You used me?" John asked.

"Well, yes. Did you only just catch on?" Dear me, Sherlock," he pouted, "Why do you waste your time on such boooooring people?"

John could barely believe every word that came out of Richard's mouth. It didn't matter how short the relationship had been- it had been a perfect relationship; the one: someone who cared about him, who took time to listen, was handsome and cultured and trustworthy. Or so he thought.

"Richard..."

"His name's not Richard," Sherlock muttered, fixing John with a sorry gaze.

"Isn't he clever?" Richard, or not Richard, grinned like a cheshire cat.

"Jim Moriarty," Sherlock filled in.

"I would say you'd have to tell me how you worked that one out, Sherlock, but unfortunately, the clock is ticking," Richard, or Jim, as John should now think of him as, sang, somewhat euphemistically, taking a mocking prod at Sherlock's middle. Sherlock flinched.

"You were... even lying about your name?" John tried to clarify, looking from one man to the other.

"Even? Oh, John, John, John... It was all very much a lie. Let's see, what else did I fib about to poor Johnny? Well, there was that date," he looked pointedly at Sherlock, "And where I took you to that takeaway and pretended I liked the same beverage as you- I mean, I asked your ex about all that."

"My ex? How-"

"Oh, friend of mine, Mike Stamford. Or rather, a new freind of mine, if you see what I'm getting at," Jim winked, and did a happy little spin on the ball of his foot. "Well, and then I figured you realised that the whole relationship was a bit of a porky..." He chuckled; though the tone was less light this time, rather creepier and insidious. "It was sooooooo easy to wind you round my little finger-"

"HOW DARE YOU!" John roared, and tried his best to get to his feet, to throttle Jim until there wasn't a single breath of life in that annoying smirk of his. However, the binding around his ankles held fast, and he could only shake the chair angrily, letting the framework rock loudly on the concrete.

"Oh, do calm down, John. Look, Sherlock's being such a good boy."

There were two red dots hovering over Sherlock's chest now; though he wasn't panicking. Not obviously, anyhow. His eyes were staring and his thick brows low, casting shadows over his angular face.

"Why?" Sherlock asked. John blinked, surprised to hear him pipe up after such a length of silence.

"Why?"

"Yes... Why? To ruin my reputation? To get back at Mycroft? Something to do with John?"

"Oh... Sherlock, and I thought you were so _intelligent_. You're just like the rest of them," he sneered at Molly, still motionless in the chair next to John. "I'm not even an escort- why would I have anything to do with your poxy agency or whatever you whores call it, or your faggot brother... well, not explicitly; or that ridiculous man there," he looked at John. "I do love a big reveal, don't you...? So, I've known you longer than you think, Sherlock. I wanted to watch you _dance_. So I thought I'd just toy with everything around you... You know, let Sebby rough you around a bit, let him loose on that girl over there... Just for fun. You intrigue me, you see." He'd began to start pacing around the trio- round the back of the chairs so John couldn't see him, and round until he could run his finger up Sherlock's spine, while Sherlock stiffened, simply looking at John with a grim expression, and not retaliating.

"But then John arrived. And it was sooooo interesting, seeing how you reacted to him- Sebby told me how well you guys hit it off in the Tube station. And, you know, I though... Wow, Sherlock Holmes, in _love_? So I thought I'd turn up the heat. Knock of a client or two, to shake you up. And see what I could do with a man you'd actually come to care about. And it turns out, I did marvellously well with both plans! You both worked so hard, too, asking Irene and all that; that was adorable, even if she didn't take to kindly to it. But look! I nearly had John completely on my side. But then you had to go and ruin it... Well, I don't like my plans getting ruined. Ruined plans make people... _late_."

There was a deathly silence.

"So what now? Blow us all to smithereens?" Sherlock spat.

"No no, how could I? That's not right. God, Sherlock, demonising my like that... The Irish guys are the good guys, and no one likes prostitutes, remember? Naughty, dirty men. No; I'll give you a choice."

Out of his jacket, Jim pulled a familiar gun. Gleaming black barrel, compact size- it was John's. Jim had taken John's gun while he was out, and was now using it to blow them up...?

No. He handed the gun to Sherlock, who took it cautiously. No sooner had the item changed hands, did the snipers fixed on Sherlock increase tenfold, all dancing around his torso like insane, angry fireflies.

"Shoot me, and I will blow this entire car park up," Jim said in a growly tone.

Sherlock looked at the gun, and then at John, helpless in the chair, and his eyes widened.

"Ohhh... Caught on yet?" Jim was positively bouncing with excitement. "Tell me what I'm thinking. Prove to me you're _special_ , Sherlock."

"I can either shoot myself... or John?" Sherlock muttered, and John's heart skipped a beat.

"Pretty much. Though, in the interests of fair play, I'd let John and you other friend go, first, if you shot yourself. And if you shot John, I could... compensate you, should we say, for your loss. Just short of three million sterling, was it?"


	26. London Confetti

John felt his throat constrict. A tiny, blistered claw, grappling at his jugular until it had a firm grasp on his trachea, just below his trembling larynx; where it tensed, and John found himself feeling the air go dead in the heavy bags of his lungs.

The gun was still pointed at him. That same gleaming barrel he knew so well- the elegant shape, _sa chiffre_ , wont beneath his poised digits. He knew how many rounds that gun had loaded, right at that moment. He knew how it felt against the curve of his back, and how Sherlock wouldn't be so familiar with the cool metal, and the texture of duty and honour on its hilt. He knew how fast its bullet would travel through the air, into his skull, and through the squishy grey matter beneath; because Sherlock would go for the brain, it was simply the kind of person he was. The heart meant nothing to him: he spent his whole adult life playing to the whims of the hearts of others, and yet he lived in a seperate world. Aloof. Where thoughts and ideas were currency: John could see it between him and Mycroft. The hatred, and the sparks of ideas that lasted a mere fleeting second. John wondered if that was what was going on here, between Jim and Sherlock- a mind-game. Alas, no: Sherlock held the gun to John's eye-level. He considered the other man his equal. The mind was his target.

For a stupid moment, John considered trying to slip his Browning out from his belt, before realising just how extraordinary such a feat would be, considering he was looking into its own beady eye.

"All that time you spend, playing to the games of the idiotic and indulgent, Sherlock. Imagine; living free of restraint, no one on your back, watching your every move. No drain in your pocket, and the freedom to do what you want, say what you want... Wouldn't that be just _wonderful_ , Sherlock?"

John wouldn't blame him for pulling the trigger. It was either him or all of them, after all. And there was some other instinct hanging in there... Empathy? He'd seen the hand-shaped bruises, the controlling arm of his employer, and the way Ms Hudson looked at John when she came up with biscuits, the morning after Sherlock had stumbled through the door at 7AM.

Plus, it was him who had gotten them into this particular mess.

His overly-divulgent blog posts could be an ironic epitaph.

Sherlock's hands were trembling now; and quite obviously, too. He had to raise the other hand up to cup the poised hand in his palm, gulping as he did so. Jim passed no comment on the uncharacteristic tremour in Sherlock's limbs- perhaps because his face was so calm, his facial expression ironed into one of stoicism. Though his eyes- his eyes were ablaze.

"What if I choose neither?"

"That's cheating, Sherlock. Oh, the look on your face when you thought you'd get away with that one!"

Jim's face went stormy.

"I'll obliterate you," he expanded, just for clarity.

"But why? No one just does it for the thrill, Moriarty."

"We've already been through this," Jim snapped in reply, and both John and Sherlock flinched. Had Molly have been conscious, she certainly would have visibly jumped a bit. "Stop wasting time trying to sentimentalise this, Sherlock. Your clients have whims, as do I. It's just... ordinary people are stimulated by sex. What excites me, is something much, much more... invigorating."

"What's that?" John asked. He could tell Sherlock was stalling, and Jim could see it too- but Jim's problem was, after spending so long working in the shadows, he quite clearly loved to boast, and to make John, and, in a way, Sherlock, feel small. It seemed so simple a weakness, for a man so intricately complicated.

"Good question," he glanced down at John, one eyebrow raised. "I like manipulating people, watching them dance like helpless marionettes. And ordinary people are so _boring_. So I chose you, Sherlock. You _know_ people, don't you?"

"And you claim to know people-"

The rest of Sherlock's sentence was lost, as a gunshot rang out through the car park.

Once John had established he was still alive, he looked at Sherlock and Jim. Every single sniper laser had disappeared from Sherlock's chest, and he stood, frozen, gun still aimed at John; his expression a mixture of shock and knowing. No time. There was another shot, and what sounded like a body slumping to the concrete.

Jim's face was twisted in rage. Sherlock, for the moment, free of the threat of explosion, turned the threat on Jim, steady.

"Sebastian!" Richard screamed, his eyebrows heavy with shadows, and his expression that of a man John wouldn't dare cross, even if armed. He was glowering at Sherlock as the man moved behind John, and, with one hand, scrabbled at the binding around John's wrist, whilst glancing intermittently back at the sullen psychopath.

There was a click, that echoed around the walls, just as Sherlock freed John's wrists. Both men looked up, to see a figure slumping out of the shadows on light-feet, with a rather antique-looking rifle to hand. That, however, was no what had made the click- Jim had his own gentlemen's hand-pistol, a tiny but powerful thing, clenched in his hand. His grin was manic- a catastrophic collision of terror and sadism, as he regained control of the situation.

"Two against one, Sherlock," he cackled, even though John had now managed to untie his own ankles, and stood up gingerly. As a medical man, his instincts wanted him to check on Molly, but the fact that two men were pointing guns at the pair of them made him stand stock-still. He wasn't frightened- his form was military, so neither confrontational, nor waving a metaphorical white flag.

"Is it?" Sherlock grinned. What was he playing at, egging Jim on like that? Especially when he had a back-up thug...

Said thug slumped to the ground, as there was yet another firing noise. A shiver jolted John's spine as he watched crimson liquid bloom in death on the dirty floor beneath the man's potato-like head. In a way, he looked like Mike Stamford. Lost, but no ketchup stains.

Plus, the real Mike Stamford was miles away, probably taking an unhealthy late-lunch, unaware of the things his supposedly cunning plans and loose-lips had caused.

The person who had fired the fatal shot, this time, decided to join the party: with steel-capped footsteps nearing at a leisurely pace.

"Mycroft Holmes," Jim sneered, and John turned around. Indeed, looking better for wear than the rest of them, and sneering just as much as Jim, only in a much loftier manner- passively looking down his nose at the three of them rather than contorting his face with common hatred.

"Jim Moriarty. It's been a while. Taken a liking to my baby brother, I hear? John, take those ghastly amateur explosives off Sherlock's chest, would you?" he drawled.

John obliged. There were two guns pointing at Jim now- and chances were, Mycroft was yet another intriguing character for Jim to spin.

The explosives were relatively easy to dismantle from Sherlock's body. John tried to ignore how close they were- especially as John owed Sherlock an apology or two, and Sherlock ought to give John an explanation. And there was no talking, too, from the other two men. John couldn't tell if it was because they were watching them or each other; either way, the air hummed with electricity.

The wires slipped off, and John felt a subtle loosening of Sherlock's body. His shoulders dropped, and her gained back a bit more of that dark arrogance John had been acquainted with for little more than a week.

And the gun was pointing back at Moriarty's chest, as John slid the explosives as far away as he could, and grasped Sherlock's arm.

"I'm not sure it's completely requited," Jim's eyes flicked lazily between the three men. He winked at John, who gulped. "Still. Thank you for joining- I just thought it was going to get boring. I can see," he strode forward a step, "That I need to consider how I want to do this."

And he shot John.

"Oops," was all he said, as John made a strangled noise. Pain tore at every nerve in his left shoulder, and his knees felt so far away. He was bent in some way, and there was a hand- no, two- keeping him in a standing position. He couldn't think about anything- nothing but the pain, and the sadistic smile of the man who had inflicted it.

" _Look_ , Sherlock, I shot him. Has it gone deep enough? Is he going to live? How do you feel? You loved him, didn't you? Well... Don't you want to _punish_ me, Sherlock? Shoot me, Sherlock. SHOOT ME."

Sherlock looked down at John. It was probably as close to crying as Sherlock would ever get, watching John's eyelids flutter as he held his wound, teeth gritted.

Why did Richard want Sherlock to shoot him now? What was the other option? Sherlock was holding the gun steady now. And there was a gun staring back at him.

"Oh, I've had enough of this," came a far-off voice in John's ear, and the whole world exploded around him, and, through the bleary, angry world of pain, John saw the man he once loved; the man who had had him knocked out; the man who had kissed him on the Embankment; the man who strapped Sherlock up in Semtex; and the man who had lied, fall straight backwards, almost rigid, and hit the floor with a glassy, gaze-less stare.


	27. Love, Love, Love, Whatever

John had never been one for literature. He was, and always had been, a scientific man: he liked the facts, and using said facts to stay in control. So when Molly sat next to his bed after his operation, his head swimming with not-yet-worn-off anaesthetic and morphine, and talked about endings (was she reading a book on philosophy?), it really meant nothing to him. He instead propped himself up slightly, and watched her lips move as the words washed over him, calming the panic.

"Real-life isn't like a story, Molly," came a calm baritone. "You see the ending from a different perspective in a story. Not to mention, that things are seldom tied into a neat little bow- like crimes in detective novels. There are ongoing problems and suchlike. Not everything is solved at the end of a chapter in real-life." And Sherlock revealed himself in a way only he could- drawing open the curtains with a flourish, eyes twinkling with pleasure as he saw John awake.

"Who said this was a "chapter"?" John asked.

"Molly."

"Did I?"

"I don't know, I wasn't listening."

There was a short silence. Molly fiddled with the sleeve of her coat- or John's coat, which it seemed she had been lent. Not that John minded. It suited her.

"When you leave home, or finish school- that's like the end of a chapter. And it doesn't matter if everything is left hanging, in a random place, y'know... It's still the end," Molly contemplated.

"If you define life by starts and ends, then people forget what comes in the middle, and life itself becomes mere transport."

"A little ray of bloody sunshine, aren't you," John scowled up at Sherlock from the hospital bed. He hated hospitals- or rather, he hated being the patient. The beds were awful, and he knew the little mistakes when he saw them, and it frustrated him how he couldn't do anything about it, or anything about the fact he was there in the first place. If he moved, it hurt. John wondered if the bullet had torn any if the already existing scar-tissue- which would take considerably longer to heal.

He was lucky to be alive. Strange, though: while Sherlock had aimed for his head, the man who was supposedly Sherlock equal, devoid of emotion and apart from society- a man with no furthur desires other than to mess with him- went for the heart.

"Fine. I suppose social protocol desires me to ask; how do you feel?"

Despite the way he'd posed the question, both Molly and John could see how he leant forward as he said it, and how the hard cynicism in his voice wavered a bit in the middle. Molly couldn't help but surreptitiously smile, tugging at the bottom of the t-shirt the hospital had, for some reason, given her (as well as trousers).

"Groggy, and I want out of here."

"Now who's optimistic?" Sherlock said, but he was smiling wryly up at John, a sad twinkle in his eye. The bed felt suddenly hard against John's back, and the bedclothes all too thin, as if being with Sherlock made everything close in a little. He had to mentally make sure his breathing was regular for a few seconds, lest he just... stop.

"Molly, could you give us a minute, please?" John asked politely. "If my wallet's down there, Sherlock needs some coffee before he falls asleep."

"I'm not dependent," Sherlock mumbled, and John flinched slightly at the touchiness of the subject of addictions, but Molly sinply moved behind the blue curtain with a passive wave, and Sherlock didn't notice. So he decided to continue.

"Mycroft came by before."

"How, indeed, did he get here before Molly and I?" Sherlock asked, and it was largly rhetorical. Mycroft was a drug dealer, tossing about cannabis and cocaine, sure, but his knowledge of drugs wasn't restricted to that of the illegal kind, just as Sherlock's intimate understanding of people wasn't limited to those who payed him. So he knew around how long a patient like John would be out for, after an operation.

"Divulging more of my deepest secrets, I presume?" Sherlock steepled his fingers underneath his chin, but didn't lean back. John ran a hand up his face in reflection, remarking on how grubby he felt, and how nice it would be to get back to the flat; with its moody lighting, relative isolation and old, dusty smell. Finish unpacking his boxes, and have a shower- and perhaps some tea. The stuff they served in hospitals was watery, as though an overworked-nurse didn't have time to boil the kettle properly, nor leave the bag to stew.

"He said he'd pay off the three million," John bent his chin to his chest. "You-"

"He's offered that before, John," Sherlock interjected calmly, "Many times. And I won't have it- not because I'm stubbourn, or because I have some deep love and respect for my _darling_ big brother and couldn't possibly accept his money... Just won't."

"He got you into-"

"No, he didn't get me into anything. I... was young and foolish at the time- well, I'm still foolish now, look what I dragged you into- a game, again. A stronger man could have resisted temptation. So I can take on the ever-preached consequences of my actions, I assure you- and I certainly won't let Mycroft feel he's done something altruistic, or worse, that I owe him a favour."

"So you are stubbourn."

"No."

"...He did save us there, doing the whole-"

"I had it under control."

John chuckled. "Did you?" And then he stopped, seeing Sherlock leaning back, like a cat, and stretching his legs across the sterile linoleum. "I'm sorry, too. For accusing you of that stuff, getting drunk, letting Rich- Jim, use me so easily, and then running off into trouble. And that you got strapped up with bombs."

"Isn't it quite heroic, for a soldier to run into battle like that?"

"Not to bring an innocent woman into the fray, and get knocked-out, no," John sighed. His heart was pounding now- reliving the moments where the shots echoed in his ears, and supressing the guilt that rose in his chest everytime. "Just... For once, Sherlock, accept the apology?"

"If you accept mine."

"...I do."

And the whole ward seemed to sigh, the walls lightening, even in the dim light of the overcast December afternoon, and the papery curtains fluttering gently with a breeze from a door out in the corridor. There was a window directly opposite John, by the side of another patient's bedside (they were asleep), where John could see clearly the side of a building (he wasn't sure which one) and then, besides that, an expanse of grey sky. However, the picture wasn't a still one- as, after a minute, he realised he was watching a kind of weightless rain falling in arbitrary directions. Like mist, but clumpier, and more calming to watch. 

"Hey... Sherlock?"

"Hmm?" No matter what he said, about gun-fights and fraternal-hatred being sufficiently stimulating, he damn needed some coffee.

"It's... It's snowing."

"...Bit early, isn't it?"

"'Tis December now," John shrugged. "You left your scarf at home."

"I thought you'd notice."

"What?" John sat up suddenly, and winced as a stabbing pain shot through his shoulder.

"I do know when I'm about to get kidnapped, even under the cover of night. I left it so you knew I wasn't just sulking."

John could manage nothing but a small "Oh."

Sherlock didn't think he was stupid, then.

Sherlock caught his eye, and John wanted to kick himself. _No_ , he told himself. Sure, Sherlock could be an arse, but if there was one thing the past day had taught him, it was that the arses of the world told the truth, and that the nice people were nothing but an illusion- a spider, spinning in the centre of its murderous web of lies. A lesson he ought to take away, he thought, once Mycroft had cleared everything up (everything left, anyway- it was concluded to be easier leaving the police deluded or paid off about the murders, whichever it was).

Obscure as it may seem, in the story of John Watson's life, this enigmatic prostitute had become the good guy. So had Lestrade, Molly, Sally- and bloody hell, even Mycroft.

And "Sly Stammy" wasn't the last one laughing. Not this time.

God knows, things had become weird. And yet... he was content. (Or he would be, when his shoulder healed up).

The snow was getting heavier. It was flurrying and collecting on the window ledge, already mounting a white pile about a centimeter thick against the pane.

"Well," John exhaled loudly, "Smart as it was, you're going to get nasty cold when we finally get out of here."

Sherlock's lips curved into a perfect bow-shape; a serene smile, and, slowly- and yet so quickly that John didn't realise it was hapenning- he leant down, and pressed a perfect, chaste kiss to John's forehead. John felt cold fingers snake their way to intertwine with his own, and the was an ephemeral whisper in his ear- barely audible over the ceaseless rush of the world.

"We'll manage."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much indeed for reading to the end! Feel free to leave comment, critique, etc.
> 
> Two things about this chapter- yes, it's platonic. Don't get me wrong, I think Johnlock is great- but people rant about how Moffat made a lesbian fall in love with a man, but don't see that maybe, Sherlock could actually be asexual, possibly aromantic? I could make for a large debate on Victorian literature and fanservice etc, but, in this case, I'm simply ending a story with no kinky sex. Or any sex whatsoever in the story, which probably screws with people, being a prostitution AU. (At one point, I had John trying to hire Sherlock, but then I didn't think he'd be so obtrusive).
> 
> Secondly, I like to think my readers aren't stupid, and I didn't want to be super-obvious with all the plot points. Equally, you're not expected to rationalise them for yourselves- I hope for there to have been sufficient information in the finale for you to draw you own conclusions...? I posted this on fanfic.net, and there were complaints, but let's see, shall we?


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